Mortis Magister
by That Posh Wanker
Summary: "Blood will out", they say, and it certainly seems the case for one Tom M. Riddle, Junior. But Dark doesn't necessarily mean evil, and the British Empire faces a make-or-break chapter in its history. Follow Tom as he navigates the pitfalls of life in England during World War II and beyond in an alternate timeline. Note: Events are different but characters stay the same... ish!
1. Chapter 1

A few caveats before we embark on a magical, mystical story of adventure, murder, mystery, and politics. First: readers may wish to acquaint themselves with the seven-volume biography of Henry James Potter, Junior written by Joanne Kathleen Rowling. This is optional, as this story reflects an alternate timeline that split off in mid-August of 1938. That said, an alternate _timeline_ does _not_ mean alternate _people_. Specifically, Thomas Marvolo Riddle, his immediate family, Eileen Prince, Professors Horace Eugene Flaccus Slughorn and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore of Potions and Transfiguration respectively, Hermione Jane Granger, and others are the same people as they are in the Prime Universe. Should he be alive and unsatisfied with my portrayal of his personality, Professor Nicolas Flamel in specific is welcome to serve process on me and file suit in a court of law of his choosing. As for _events_... well, you'll see.

Second: I must emphasise that The Hon. Tom M. Riddle is every inch a psychopath in the _clinical_ sense as defined by Doctors Robert Hare and Hervey Cleckley. The events described, however, begin long before Dr Hare's career. It should be understood that Tom's illness (debatable-he'd call it a variation in nervous 'wiring' and I'd probably agree with him) is very much of the _affective_ genus. After thorough consideration of his _curriculum vitae_ , both in this timeline and the alternate, I have concluded that our friend Tom doesn't believe in the ideas that might makes right and greed is good. He _knows_ that such is the case, that _homo hominem edit_ , and that this is right and good. He agrees with Herbert Spencer about the survival of the fittest, and he believes (not without justification) that he is among their number. The natural corollary to this is that those not so blessed deserve whatever ill luck befalls them-including their reputational, legal, financial, and medical ruin, as well as their death. Much like Professor Slughorn, Tom is a passionate collector-and much like that same learned man, Tom collects _people_. As for his opinions, the concepts embodied by the words _good_ and _right_ , and _evil_ and _wrong_ , are the sorts of fairy tales one outgrows at about the same time as the misapprehension that new siblings are brought home by ciconid birds. The needlessly overcomplicated song-and-dance about those three letters _s-e-x_ , well, some people-self-described ladies, chiefly-have a seemingly pathological insistence on defining love as anything other than a zero tennis score. The truth is that the _voluptates carnales,_ like cryptics or cribbage, are merely an alternative to the boredom of a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Third: feel free to disagree with Riddle's beliefs if you like-he won't hold it against you. Hell, go ahead and disagree with his thoughts on evil. Vocally so, if you like; the men and women who consider themselves his friends do. Frequently. If you _must_ believe in the existence of evil as such, though, never make the grievous mistake of equating it to the Dark Arts-certainly not if you value your dignity or eardrums. The former is tantamount to the act of murder; the latter, to homicide or even to a knife. Whether you agree or disagree, though, know that he is Tom Marvolo Riddle, war hero, rightful Heir to Salazar Slytherin, _et caetera, et caetera, et caetera_ , and he is _awesome_ -not that his ever-enlarging collection of titles have anything to do with that indisputable fact.

Fourth and finally: every preceding word is true. Riddle _is_ a hero; Byronic, yes, psychopathic, yes, dark, yes, but heroic, also yes. One can not but note that _heroic_ , _light_ , and _angelic_ are in _no way synonyms_. True, in another lifetime he'd let the King of Serpents roam in Hogwarts' hallowed halls, leading to an innocent girl's death. True, he'd used her demise to make a Horcrux. True, he murdered five more people, attempted another murder, and the members of the secret society of which he served as Grandmaster murdered hundreds. It's also true, however, that every arse has _two_ cheeks. Miss Warren's death was an _accident_ -do you really think he _wanted_ his one true home to close its doors? Besides, Myrtle was a whiny, annoying bitch whom nobody liked-it was a service to humanity, really-and how was he to know that not only were Horcruxes addictive but also that they drained one's sanity away like a Dementor drained happiness? Really. Think about it. This time around, though, a series of fortunate events prevented him from embarking on his campaign of bigotry, torture, murder, murder, murder, murder, murder, murder, attempted murder, military defeat, and a justified demise at the hands of Harry James Potter-but this is a saga of _war_ , and one with which _Slytherins_ have thrown in their lot. The truth is a slippery thing, famous for presenting a different face to everyone who meets it-and those who have confronted it are vastly outnumbered by those who, for their own reasons, make false claims to the selfsame effect.

Have you got all that? Cauldron? Broomstick? Very good. Roll up your sleeves, throw on your cloak, holster your wand, and slap that silver dagger on your belt. Not to put too fine a point on it, people, but it started with a _war_. Pick a side-oh, the Hell with it, pick three.

 **NOTE: The first chapter of Riddle's life in this timeline was accidentally destroyed. I will endeavour to reconstruct it from memory when I have the time and inclination. The salient details are that Tom-and** _ **don't**_ _ **you dare call him that**_ **, at least not for the next few months-arrives late to the Welcoming Feast in his second year. No thanks to his former "friends'" failure to save his customary seat, he joins a few older students, making their acquaintance within school rather than without. I'm sure you'll grasp the significance if I tell you that Mulciber, Lestrange, Nott, and Jugson give way to Prince, Ollivander, Malfoy, and Verwoerd. It's worth remembering that South Africa was fully part of the British Empire in 1942-and that Verwoerd is** _ **very**_ **SA'can. An exchange student will make her appearance soon. As for Tom's wand, it contains nothing of phoenix origin, whether from Fawkes or otherwise-instead, it was expertly carved from a branch of** _ **Sambucus nigra**_ **thirty-eight centimetres in length, and boasts a core of** _ **pilos caudae Equi atropos**_ **. From whence it came, who made it, and how it came to be in Tom's possession are for me to know and for you to figure out. Where would be the fun in telling you?**


	2. Shut the Door and Have a Seat

Chapter 2 "Shut the Door and Have a Seat"

Ever since that impotent old fool Armand Dippet had granted him special dispensation to study Alchemy, Riddle had engrossed himself in studying it—or at least, in making a valiant attempt. The trouble was, no two authorities seemed to agree on what the aim of the exercise was; unlike Transfiguration, the magical transformation of one object into another, or Defence Against the Dark Arts, whose aim was in the very title of the discipline, Alchemy was a complete and utter mystery. Was the master alchemist one who had succeeded in brewing the universal solvent? Turn lead into gold? The accident in Professor Merrythought's class—how _embarrassing_ —seemed to imply the goal of alchemy was everlasting life.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Tom Riddle strode towards the Alchemy class, held in an airy classroom next to Slughorn's Potions lab, the confident expression on his face a mask for the turmoil within. Malfoy was already there, seated at a desk in the front of the room, nursing his bad leg; beside him, Rufus Belby and Alphard Black were chattering away about some stupidity or another, and in the rear, Margaret Bulstrode was silently reading a book and laughing at random moments. The classroom was girt with the sort of laboratory benches Tom knew from Potions, with familiar and unfamiliar instruments arranged thereon. At the head of the room was a fume hood and a glass box with two holes in it for the hands. There were only ten seats, and very soon, they began filling up. At precisely one in the afternoon, the professor entered through the supply cupboard, which Tom assumed was shared with the Potions lab next door.

Nicholas Flamel was a tall, corpulent wizard of indeterminate age with a slightly old-fashioned choice of wardrobe. His grey hair and beard were tied back, and pale blue eyes surveyed his students behind a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. Like Slughorn and the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Albus Dumbledore, Flamel wore teaching robes; unlike Slughorn's tweeds, Flamel wore turquoise silk spangled with white stars, and he had a sort of pointy felt bowler hat instead of the traditional mortarboard.

" _Bonjour_ , class," he said, receiving nods and mumbled greetings in return. "My name is Nicolas Flamel. I will be teaching you Alchemy. If this is not what you came for, the door is that way. No? We're good? All right, then. I remember a few of you from last year, and I'm sure you remember me. For those I haven't met, this won't be like your usual classes, and I won't be your usual teacher."

"Damn right you won't," Riddle mumbled to himself.

The professor pronounced his name French-fashion, with a silent S, and he paced up and down as he took roll call, occasionally taking a bite out of a bright red apple.

"First of all, I don't hold with any sort of formality here. This is a small, practical class _focused on the individual_. With a view to that, you can call me Nick. Second of all, nothing is forbidden here except what the law has restricted, and even this is not beyond discussion. Finally, as this can be a lab-based course for some, I'll go over some safety precautions for the benefit of newcomers." Flamel was true to his word, prattling on about crucibles, cauldrons, and safety goggles for well over fifteen minutes. Although Tom was perfectly good at pretending he was listening, his mind was entirely elsewhere, as he'd heard this all from Slughorn before. "Now, have any of you heard of the dictum that perfection is unattainable?"

Heads were nodding all around the room. Riddle, being Muggle-raised, had heard it many times, but he scorned the idea. Perfection was not only attainable, in his view, but also realistic, and he would work to bring it about to the best of his ability.

"Well, I'm here to tell you that whatever fool first said it was wrong in every sense possible. We therefore arrive at the _raison d'etre_ of the Great Art: it is the study of perfection about which it is concerned. Metals can be transmuted, exalting and ennobling them into silver and gold. Similarly, life itself can be perfected to yield enjoyment, knowledge, and—" "Immortality," Riddle mouthed in amazement. "Considering that description and what you know of magic otherwise, can you tell me whether or not this amounts to Alchemy?" The professor levelled his wand at his desk and gave a long, rather foreign-sounding incantation. Well, all spells were foreign, with those used at Hogwarts mostly being based in Latin, but this one was different. Tom wrote it down phonetically: _tow grah-fee-oh se khree-so thar met-amorpho-thay_. White light shot out of Flamel's wand, bathing the desk in a bright glow; when the light receded a second later, the desk had unmistakably turned into gold, keeping its previous form. The only Hufflepuff student in the class raised his hand with some trepidation.

"Never mind the hand, _Monsieur_ Fawley - just go straight at it," Flamel encouraged. "I do prefer if one person talks at a time, though."

"I—I don't believe so," Henry Fawley quavered.

"Why not? Oh, I failed to mention this earlier, but I do like to hear reasons when possible."

" _Finite_ ," Fawley incanted in lieu of a verbal answer, aiming his wand at the now golden desk and changing it back to wood. "You see, Transfiguration does not change the intrinsic form of an object. It wants to be wood, and if the general counter-spell is given, or if you happen to pass away—which I concede is exceedingly unlikely—it'll go ahead and turn back."

"Well done! Five points to Ravenclaw. Now, what method, or methods, exist to extend this glorious thing called life?"

Tom raised his hand.

"Well, there's unicorn blood," Tom began. "The conventional wisdom is that drinking it results in some sort of curse on the drinker, but I don't believe in such nonsense."

Flamel gave Riddle a long, hard stare. Tom had the impression that his mind was being read at that very moment, but his forays into the field of Occlumency gave him confidence that such a thing was impossible. He wasn't yet capable of resisting even a casual probe, or showing the Legilimens a memory that was at once what he wanted to see and irreconciliable with the truth, but the lightest touch would set off the mental equivalent of a hundred-decibel alarm bell; needless to say, he would know.

" ** _Actioni contrariam semper et aequalem esse reactionem_** ," Flamel said. "It should be obvious that such beauty and innocence as occurs in _Equus monoceratos_ can not be tarnished without incurring a penalty. 'It'll drain him dry as hay. Sleep shall neither night nor day hang upon his penthouse lid. He shall live a man forbid. Weary sev'nnights nine times nine shall he dwindle, peak and pine.' When it comes to matters of life and death, it is highly inadvisable to be a sceptic, _Monsieur_ Riddle."

"The Bard, Sir?" said Margaret Bulstrode. "I didn't think you'd plump for him, being…"

"Being what, _Ma'mselle_ Bulstrode? There's no need to call me Sir. Oh, and I believe that merits fifteen points to Slytherin."

Tom was horrified. Bulstrode's views regarding Mudbloods were well-known, and although he didn't know whether Flamel was in agreement with them or not, he rather suspected that the professor vehemently disagreed, despite his old-fashioned wardrobe. The witches and wizards across the Channel were awful libertines, Abraxas had said, and his word was very much credible. Tom certainly didn't want Meg to offend the teacher, especially not when he was being so generous with the points.

"Erm, you know, French. I thought you'd go for Voltaire! Oh, and if I'm going to call you Nick, you might as well call me Meg."

"English literature has a charm all its own, Meg. Those of you taking a Hermetic approach will benefit from a knowledge of Newton and Fludd in particular. Does anyone know another method?"

At this point, Abraxas Malfoy said something in rapid-fire French. Professor and student continued speaking in that language for about ten minutes, with Malfoy occasionally having to repeat something or other slowly and carefully. Apparently, he had difficulty making himself understood by Flamel, although his accent clearly wasn't _foreign_ as such. Riddle was briefly annoyed, though this subsided when he realised that Abraxas clearly had nobody else with whom to practice the Gallic tongue.

"Fifteen points to Slytherin, _Monsieur Malfoy_! Three artefacts, reputed to have been made by _la Faucheuse_ herself, are believed to exist in this world; in French, they are for this reason known as _les reliques de la mort_. Unfortunately, we must now leave the kingdom of truth and enter into the realm of conjecture. When jointly in the possession of one person, that person is reputed to become Master of Death and thus gain dominion over her. What this means is unclear at the present time. One of my colleagues believes that the story is simply a story, and if not, that the Master of Death simply faces her with dignity at the usual end of his life. I am not so pessimistic as that. My own opinion is that collecting _les reliques_ truly does grant immortality. It is a problematic and incomplete approach to Alchemy, because there are but three _reliques_ scattered between the four winds, there can only be one Master, and the question of transmutation is of course unresolved."

"Wouldn't it be quite the irony if the Deathly Hallows were right under our noses, though?" Julius Prewett said. "More to the point, Nick, did it really take you ten minutes to discuss the Tale of the Three Brothers?"

" _Non, non_. We spoke also of hobbies and hometowns, personal lives and family lives. _Monsieur Malfoy_ is perfectly welcome to visit my wife and me, should he wish, and vice versa. There is a third method, once again incomplete. It is furthermore highly illegal, for good reason. To be perfectly clear, it turns my blood to water. I do not expect any of you to know its name, but if one of you does, fifty points shall be the reward. On the other hand, if I hear that one of you has gone down this route, I will make it my personal crusade to hunt the miscreant down and visit the vengeance of Hell itself on him. Is that understood?"

There were general nods of understanding all around the room. Tom felt a light prodding at the base of his mind; he came down on it like a hammer on a particularly delicate set of fingers, causing Flamel to screw his eyes shut in visible pain. He knew perfectly well what the professor was implying. In fact, Riddle had entertained the thought of creating a Horcrux more than once, but he'd always discarded the idea as impractical. Who would he kill to power the ritual? It would have to be someone who wouldn't be missed—someone like a tramp or that wretched Myrtle Warren—but he was worried that such an insignificant victim would make an equally insignificant Horcrux. Even in intellectual society, though, he dared not admit knowing the name of the concept. Flamel's opinion of magic was much the same as Tom's own, but apparently some things were taboo even in such rarefied company.

"Phylacteries," Alph Black said, at a volume just barely above a whisper.

Riddle was surprised at the answer; he'd never heard of phylacteries. He was even more surprised at _who_ was doing the answering. In Divination, there were cartomancers, hydromancers, and cleromancers; Alph Black was a _porno_ mancer. He'd seemingly 'had' every witch in Hogsmeade, as well as a few witch-shaped… _things_ … that weren't even human. Accordingly, Alph was better known as the living broomstick—everyone had had a ride. Riddle had no time in which to wonder at the incongruity of the situation, because at that very moment, the silvery, shimmering 'ghost' of a swan flew through the blackboard. Flamel stared at it intently for a second or two—and went white as a sheet thereafter.

"Mon Dieu…" he mumbled, rushing out the door. "Class dismissed, and fifty points to Slytherin."

* * *

"All students will assemble in the Great Hall," Armand Dippet's magically enhanced voice echoed through the school's corridors. "I repeat: all students will assemble in the Great Hall immediately."

Tom thought this a bit silly, given that it was lunchtime. With war rationing in full force and his abysmal 'living' situation—if it could even be called that—he had no idea when the next morsel of food would come, and he therefore ate whatever was offered when it was offered with an almost religious fervour. The idea of willingly skipping a meal was anathema to him—in fact, he was shocked that some students did so. He was already tucking in to his rare steak and chips when the announcement was made.

"What's this about?" he asked Gregory Ollivander, who was once again sitting next to him, evidently impressed. The seat across from Tom remained, for some reason, vacant.

"I haven't the faintest, but it's bound to be _some_ sort of emergency. Last time something like this happened, there was an attack on the Minister for Magic's home."

"Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you with disturbing news," Albus Dumbledore began. "Less than half an hour ago, an attempt was made to abduct Seraphine Bonaparte, the only daughter of the Minister for French Magical Affairs, from her accommodations at the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Thankfully, she managed to evade her prospective captors in a manner that, although most ingenious, shall remain secret. She seeks sanctuary in these hallowed halls, and given that it is manifestly inappropriate for Miss Bonaparte to continue her studies at an institute from which she was nearly kidnapped, the decision has been taken that sanctuary and education will be granted. Please welcome Miss Bonaparte with the same respect—and most of all, love—that you grant those from Britain's shores. Miss Bonaparte, in accordance with the traditions and customs of this institution, please step forward to be Sorted into sixth year."

"Love is nothing but a nil score in tennis, Dumbles," Riddle half-joked _sotto voce_.

"Beg pardon?" asked Abraxas, who was seated on his right.

"Forget I said anything."

Riddle was no professional when it came to appraising feminine pulchritude; he merely knew what he liked, and he certainly liked Seraphine Bonaparte. The strangely compelling girl had white hair, ice-blue eyes, ivory skin, and an ample chest. Dumbles was six feet tall and somewhat thin for a man, but Seraphine was taller and thinner still, with a face Tom could only describe as… delectable. In fact, the school's entire male population, and some females, seemed to be in silent agreement; Abraxas Malfoy was visibly drooling. The only thing that marred her preternatural beauty was a short, but deep gash on her left cheek. Despite all attempts to staunch the wound, a rivulet of pink blood steadily dripped—

 _Hold on a second,_ Tom thought. Healthy wizards and Muggles were united, if by nothing else than by the crimson colour of the blood that flowed in their veins. What curse could possibly turn it _pink_ , yet leave the victim standing? There was one that poisoned the blood with white damp, but its consequences were obvious and invariably lethal without treatment; besides, blood so perverted was cherry-red, not pink. _She isn't exactly human, then. Vampire? Werewolf? Half-siren? One for Alphard, at any rate._ It was also interesting to see that the 'girl' wore the same sort of turquoise silk robes as did Flamel, albeit far simpler in design, tailored to her form, and with shoulders covered. _So that's where he gets it from._

In the meantime, Seraphine stood in trepidation before an audience of 1,200-odd students and teachers with Godric Gryffindor's ratty old hat perched precariously on her head. Three minutes turned into four, then five, at which point the students and faculty—or those not affected by her inborn area-compulsion charm, at any rate—began to whisper amongst themselves. Seraphine Bonaparte was officially a Hatstall.

"Well, if you're sure," the Sorting Hat said at long last, "better be **SLYTHERIN**!"

With supreme self-assurance and head held high, Seraphine strode down the length of the appropriate table, made eye contact with Riddle, sat across from him without so much as a hello, and began picking at her food without actually eating much. He was conflicted about this. On the one hand, he instinctively understood that someone at the centre of an abduction attempt would act in this fashion—or at least, that _society_ would expect her to. He also liked the occasional moment of quiet reflection.

Unfortunately, quiet reflection would _not_ be what he'd get if Seraphine kept her mouth shut, because Abraxas Malfoy and Elspeth 'Dutch' Verwoerd would undoubtedly indulge in their favourite hobby: arguing about politics like a married couple. In point of Tom's opinion, they would very likely _be_ a married couple soon. Malfoy was a proponent of the eminently reasonable idea that magic was magic. In his books, the word wizard applied to any intelligent creature able and willing to pick up a wand and to internalise its proper use. Verwoerd agreed with the equally sensible, yet diametrically opposed, concept that traditions were to be respected. Civilised society would crumble if beings not brought up in its customs from birth were to join it.

Both sides had their excesses, of course. Were it up to him, Abraxas would cheerfully have given Manticores and Sphinxes wands and set them loose on the more ordinary sort of wizard, although it had to be said that Manticores were plenty dangerous without and that Sphinxes were to a… girl? satisfied with tooth, claw, and Daily Prophet cryptic. On the other hand, the 'traditions' that Verwoerd so rabidly defended largely amounted to such silly tat as wearing one's signet ring on the little finger of the left hand, keeping one's braces covered by waistcoat or robe, reserving gold jewellery for nine-to-five wear and silver otherwise, cutting the crusts off one's bread, and not falling flat on one's face when one used the Floo. Malfoy rightly gathered that it was an exercise in self-fulfilment: parents would inculcate the 'proper' habits in their children from childhood specifically because they were too numerous and complex to assimilate fully otherwise, and students would look for these same habits in prospective friends in order to recognise those who had been so tutored.

Most of Verwoerd's opinions were quite innocuous—but only _most_ of them. When Barrington 'Horse' Shacklebolt had taken his place with the other first-years and was duly sorted into Gryffindor, Dutch had complained loudly and at length, but mercifully within the relative privacy of the common room, that Hogwarts had the temerity to admit 'kaffirs' and the gall to let them eat at table, rather than in the kitchen with the House Elves where they belonged. Riddle had **really** been hit for six then, because Shacklebolt was not a 'mere' pureblood but one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, with an illustrious military and law-enforcement pedigree, and to someone like Elspeth Verwoerd, his credentials should have been absolutely unassailable. He spent days trying to understand what her problem was, until a chance mention of that same word in a book finally cleared the air. Dutch looked down on Shacklebolt for a reason that was deceptively simple. According to her, it didn't matter in the slightest how many times a Shacklebolt had saved Britain from high treason, coups d'etat, assassinations, Dark Wizards, and the French. Mason Shacklebolt had arrived from the West Indies as a manumitted African slave with a 'special' talent and his wife had shared both traits; ergo, they and their offspring were worth less than the ship they sailed in on, end of story. Tom didn't _like_ Horse—he'd have to _talk_ to him to learn to like him, and both boys kept to themselves—but it seemed to him as if Dutch was wasting precious oxygen on this particular issue.

The worst thing about this all was that Verwoerd _loved_ to get under the skins of beings she considered beneath educated, civilised humanity. Her method for doing so was invariant: she would break the silence with an opinion about said being as if it were absent, disguising the jab as a serious political question. Dutch and Malfoy both had good, even great, points on occasion—but Malfoy had _tact_. Consequently, if Dutch stayed true to form, the French Minister's daughter, whatever she was, would burn her to a crisp—or worse, provoke a Diplomatic Incident. Those two words had the potential to cause brown, smelly messes in even a seasoned politician's pants, for good reason. Riddle was determined to avoid such a thing. He was not going to be the boy who begged his friends—not that he would admit such a thing—to stop fighting.

"Hello, Seraphine," Tom began. "My name's Riddle. Just Riddle."

" _Enchante_."

"I'm Abbuhhhh…" Malfoy said, trailing off.

"Abbuh," the girl replied, with a little smile that reminded Tom of a kitten. "That's an interesting name."

"Yes—NO! I mean, _m'appelle Abraxas Malefoy_ ," he said with a blush, pronouncing his name Ab-hack- _sah_ Mal- _fwah_.

The girl smiled again and continued to play with her food; wisely, Verwoerd kept silent. Eventually, conversation picked back up, although Seraphine didn't join in, and Riddle almost literally heaved a sigh of relief. Still, he knew it wasn't _healthy_ for a girl to be so preternaturally quiet at a meal. He resolved to engage her in some way, and perhaps even mend the cut on her cheek, even though he didn't even know what _species_ she was—only that she wasn't human.

"So what house were you in?" he asked. "At Beauxbatons, I mean."

She laughed—and a very odd laugh it was, too, like the tinkling of a glockenspiel, but it certainly was pleasant.

"There are no houses at Beauxbatons," Abraxas answered for her. "No common rooms, either. Students are divided by age and sex—from eight to eighteen—and their bedrooms are private."

"That must do wonders for school spirit," Tom said drily. "You're a Beauxbatons eighth-year, then?"

" _C'est ca_ ," replied Seraphine.

"What courses did you take?" asked Eleanor Prince. "If the school's so different, I imagine the courses would be, too."

It transpired that Ellie was quite correct in her assumption. Seraphine did not know the English for some of her courses—Malfoy had to translate—but the little group eventually learned that she took Care of Magical Creatures, Potions, Transfiguration, Spellcasting Languages, Astronomy, Arithmancy, Magical Theory, Ancient Studies, Alchemy, Mind Arts, and Charms, for which she proudly said she got a 'vingt-et-un'—a 21. Herbology and History were optional subjects in France, while Ancient Studies was required and Magical Theory was a separate class. On the other side of the Channel, theory was taught in the same classes as practice. Gregory Ollivander liked that Beauxbatons taught Greek and Latin; in England, students were left to absorb the latter as if by osmosis and the former was largely ignored. Seraphine was sad to discover the absence of Mind Arts, but Tom had fortunately taught himself and offered to teach her as well. She was elated, though, to find that the two countries shared an Alchemy course and its genial instructor; Flamel was her favourite professor.

"I still can't believe Beauxbatons doesn't teach the Dark Arts!" Riddle said, a bit put out.

"Defence, you mean," corrected Malfoy.

"No, I mean the so-called Dark Arts," Riddle persisted. "You and I both agree that magic is magic, and thank God and Merlin for that, but according to the terminology _in use to-day_ , any spell that is purely damaging is Dark. No exceptions."

"Meaning anything from a simple Flipendo—" began Ellie, the idea dawning on her finally.

"—to an Avada Kedavra is Dark. Right you are. Dumbles irritates me because he's so damned _illogical_ about it; he insists that self-defence is essential, yet rails against the Dark Arts as if that were his full-time job. Merrythought is only slightly better."

"You _can_ defend yourself without curses or hexes, though," claimed Seraphine. "Not many Dark Wizards bring Gillyweed or skates to a fight…"

Tom pondered that for a minute, and a strategy soon began to form. Other differences between educational systems soon came to light, and it was here that Seraphine became a bit elegiac, with not a little sarcasm thrown in. Transport to Beauxbatons consisted of limousines and aeroplanes, so she naturally railed against the sooty Hogwarts Express, with its fixed route and lack of privacy. She mocked the black woollen uniform robes, the meat-and-potatoes diet, the Scottish weather, and the lack of an indoor heated pool, jokingly saying that the latter would correct the former. Riddle noted that one could say the same about the robes. Seraphine Transfigured hers to the Hogwarts standard in mock surrender, but pointedly—or rather, not—kept her felt 'flower' hat, saying that no sane witch or wizard would wear the conical British style. The irony of this statement was not lost on Muggle-raised Tom. She stuck her tongue out at him and performed a gesture Malfoy sardonically called 'the arm of honour'.

Finally, Riddle thought, the girl had crawled out of her shell. It had taken him a year to do likewise. Meanwhile, Ollivander was growing fascinated with Miss Bonaparte's wand. It was unusually long and had a partially unfinished, squared-off look, as if the core had been inserted, the handle made out of leather cord, but the wand as a whole unvarnished and roughly hewn from a tree branch. With Seraphine's permission, he took the wand in hand and turned it over and over, inspecting it.

"Interesting," he said after a minute or so. "Very interesting. Sixteen inches, silver lime, warm—almost hot—to the touch and quite whippy, with a core consisting of—dear me—"

"My own hair," Seraphine interrupted.

"Had this been made for anyone but yourself, I would call it a very temperamental piece, as it would refuse to perform any kind of magic of which you disapproved. That being said, this wand was and will be absolutely reliable in your hands for the very same reason. This is unquestionably not a Perreault wand, though. I must ask you, then, as a matter of curiosity—who made it?"

"It was me that made it," Seraphine said, with an edge of defiant pride in her voice, "when I was seven, purely as a means of amusing myself. There was an old, Bowtruckle-infested tree on the grounds of the family chateau which somehow called to me. I took a branch of the appropriate length and had Papa square it up and drill a hole down the middle. Then I inserted a lock of my hair and pretended I was Maman, waving her stick around and saying those funny Greek words—imagine my surprise when it actually worked."

"Indeed. Very interesting. This wand shall serve you well until the end of your days, unless you complete the Great Work of course, in which case your days will never end."

" _Le Grand-OEuvre?_ I may be an alchemist, but I am not interested in the slightest. I'm working on a universal solvent, actually. Who wants to live forever?"

This last bit was delivered with biting sarcasm, as if implying that whoever tried to replicate Flamel's feat was an arrant moron. For an almost imperceptible moment, Tom's blood boiled with rage, but he let it go and did his best to calm down. He hoped Bonaparte didn't notice.

"I do," he said quietly.

The conversation was loud and enthusiastic enough that Tom thought he had a chance at healing the Dark cut on Seraphine's cheek. He retreated into his magic, looking at the French girl through an entirely different set of eyes.

He saw… no, sensed… something like a wedge of darkest black holding the wound open. Extending his magic, he tried to pull, but it was no use—threads of the same blackness extended from the wedge, anchored to her skin like stitches. Slowly, he worked each and every knot loose…

"My, my, someone's got high goals," Malfoy joked, looking—surprisingly—straight at Seraphine. "You do know that's one of the Unsolved Problems, don't you? I'm not that academic. All I want is a cure for Dragon-Pox, but I wouldn't mind if I happened upon the Panacea."

"Ah… got it…" Riddle murmured. "There."

"You're not that academic? Don't call the kettle black, Monsieur le Chaudron!"

* * *

Classes had been cancelled in the wake of the Beauxbatons attack. By and large, British wizarding society was unconcerned about the war taking place in Europe—some people went so far as to call Gellert Grindelwald a reasonable man or imply that he would sort everything out—but it was understood that the French school was protected in some form against evil intent, and the idea that a Dark Lord could simply walk in and try to snatch a student was unthinkable. Nobody could understand his motives, either; while Seraphine Bonaparte's father _was_ highly-placed in the French Ministry, if he was the Dark Army's target, why not go after him personally?

Tom didn't bother to try analysing the situation in any depth. Instead, he was on his way to the library, in search of some good books on Alchemy. The intellectual stimulation was good for him, he'd decided; many of the other classes moved at such a pace that they'd be going backwards if they went any slower. He was at fifth-year level in Potions and Transfiguration—as far as the latter was concerned, he'd likely be more advanced if he'd had a teacher who didn't act as if Riddle simply weren't there—and, as regarded the Dark Arts, he was far afield from what was taught at Hogwarts. His skill at Charms was wildly variant—he was an expert at anything involving water or ice, but otherwise unremarkable—and being raised as a Muggle, his understanding of their technology was far better than a Half-blood or better in touch with his magical side.

In the library, the Alchemy texts were located between the Transfiguration and Potions shelves. Hogwarts was as famous for the calibre of its Potions research as Durmstrang was for its Dark Arts, and, as testament to this fact, three bookcases were dedicated to that excellent subject. Alchemy, on the other hand, was very obscure by comparison; it occupied about half of a shelf in a bookcase otherwise containing treatises on Animagi and Metamorphmagi.

"Mr Riddle! What can I do for you?" called Lancelot Weasley, the librarian. "Hexes for the Vexed, or some such?"

Weasley was a short, balding man with a wire-rimmed pince-nez, a handlebar moustache precisely the colour of a roaring fire and well-used robes that could only be described as _patchy_ —in fact, the patches had been worn through and themselves patched. No surprise there, Riddle thought—they'd made the _Who's Who_ , but less for their achievements and pedigree than for their impressive poverty.

"Not to-day, Sir. I'm actually looking for a _good_ foundational text in Alchemy. There's not a lot of choice here, as far as I can tell."

"A bit too young to be studying that, aren't you? The Philosopher's Stone can wait a few more years."

Riddle fixed him with a withering look.

"Magical proficiency has little to do with age, and very much to do with inborn talent and the willingness to work hard in pursuit of one's goals. It's something that you'd do well to remember."

"Right. Well, Mr Riddle, you have to understand that you're seeking information on an esoteric art. This is a generalist library, and it doesn't have many alchemy texts in it because not many _exist_. If I were you, I'd have a butcher's through Professor Flamel's private collection, if he's here this year. I do have _one_ book that might interest you, but I should warn you it's rather… stereotypical."

"In what sense?"

"I trust you're aware of so-called bangs-and-smells Charms, with results that are immediately perceptible and obvious. You've either done it or you haven't is what I'm trying to say. This book is essentially bangs-and-smells Alchemy; it focuses on the transmutation of one metal into another, because that's what a layman would understand the subject to be."

"That's precisely what I'm looking for, anyway, so I'm not bothered."

"I understand. Now, Mr Riddle, I'd like you to complete three copies of this slip in block capitals. Place one of them into the small tray on my desk, give another to me, and keep the third. The name of the book is _Uncleftish Beholding_ by Alaric Fox."

Tom followed the instructions to the letter and walked away to give the librarian the second slip. Before he could do so, however, he heard a pop like a bottle of cava being opened. He made a hundred-and-eighty degree turn on his heel to try and find out what had made the noise. For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw an incredibly dirty _something_ dressed in a grey pillowcase, like a Gringotts goblin with eyes the size of saucers, but he soon decided his mind had been playing tricks on him. The slip had vanished without a trace.

"Mr Weasley, when will my books be ready?"

Tom had also filled in a request for _Who's Who in Wizarding England_ , a few genealogies, and a book of folktales. The teasing from the less intellectual members of his own House was endless, and it rankled even though he knew it was largely rooted in envy. Mudbloods didn't have the metal snake ornaments in the Slytherin Common Room _bowing_ to them, and most of them were no great shakes at magic in any case. Who, then, was Riddle Senior, and why did the books make no mention of him?

"They already are, Mr Riddle. Try study room number thirteen."

"B-but _how_?"

"Ah, the wonders of magic," Weasley replied with a twinkle in his faded green eyes.

Tom loped off towards the individual study rooms. Each of the glass-walled cubicles was furnished with a desk, a lamp, a comfortable chair, curtains to keep away prying eyes, and an Imperturbable door with a lock on it. He settled into Number Thirteen, which did indeed have his chosen books in a neat stack on the large mahogany desk, and began to read _Uncleftish Beholding_.

Alchemy, he learned three hours later, was _frustrating_. The level of terminology necessary before anything even approaching magic could be done, was astounding. So-called bulkbits of waterstuff, sunstuff, chokestuff, and strangestuff were only the beginning; something called an uncleft was precariously defined, as were bulkbits themselves. They also had a property known as a bernstonish lading, which could be forward or backward. The art of Alchemy had rigid, unbending theories, laws, and axioms; in fact, Tom decided, it was much like Muggle science. He shut the book with a bang and leant back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head.

" _Bonjour_ , Riddle! How have you been?"

The door had opened, revealing Seraphine Bonaparte's ethereal beauty. The cut on her cheek, Tom was thankful to note, had not re-opened, and she had a hint of a smile on her face, but he supposed she did not understand that she'd broken his welcome _solitude_.

"Oh, hello, Seraphine. I've just been working on my plans for world domination," he said in a jocular tone.

It was not, however, a joke. Tom _knew_ that it was possible for him to conquer England, and, after that, the world. He'd even settled upon a workable plan the year before, although it lacked finesse and would take many years to implement. It was far better, he thought, to manipulate hearts and minds than it was to put dissenters to the sword and wand, but if the latter was the only option, he'd accept it despite its… inelegance.

"Really? I know you can do it—you can do great things, Riddle, if you set your mind to it. What do you plan to do afterward?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you have the whole world in your hands. What do you do with it?"

Hell and Tartarus would both freeze over before Tom would admit that he had not thought that far. He wanted the money, knowledge, and power that was his for the taking if he dared to take the necessary steps. He wanted immortality so he could enjoy the fruits of his labour. As for _plans_ , though…

"Seraphine, can you read the words on the door?"

"Yes…"

"No, I mean please read the words on the door out loud for me."

"'Individual Study Room Thirteen."

"Well done," Tom said patronisingly. "In other words, this is a room for individual study. According to Johnson's Dictionary of the English Language, individual means 'separate from others of the same species; single; numerically one'. In case that's not simple enough for your admittedly large brain to comprehend, it means I want to study alone."

" _Il n'est pas necessaire que tu te comportes comme un con_ ," Seraphine said in rapid fire French.

"What?"

"I said you're acting like a… a… like a woman's organ of generation! _Fine_ , I'll go away," Seraphine said, deflating, "but only when you tell me what you'll do once you've reached the top!"

"Well, for starters, I'd get rid of the idiots trying to legislate away Dark magic!"

"Good idea. Magic is magic. What about something boring, like, say, tax rates? Do we have one tax for everyone, or separate taxes for the rich and the poor?"

"The Ministry of Magic doesn't _do_ taxes," Tom said dully, having read several books on magical civics.

" _Quoi?_ The Ministry can't exist out of thin air. _En France, on a l'impot general de quinze pour cent_ , fifteen per cent."

"Not in England. The British Ministry is funded by donations, you see. Good families like the Malfoys, the Blacks, the Abbotts, and the Notts trade their fortunes for a functional government. Abraxas says it's a just and sound system."

"He would, wouldn't he? The English system lets him influence the laws to his heart's desire—he funds the State and therefore, to an extent, he _is_ the State. If everybody was taxed fairly, he'd lose access to the strings of power."

" _Malfoy?_ The only law I see him influencing is the one on maximum prices of Firewhiskey. He loves to _talk_ about politics, but who'd _listen_ to him?"

"I'm not talking about _Abraxas_ , Riddle. It's his father I'm worried about. Lucius Malfoy has a great deal of power."

"Fine. I think I'd introduce a low tax for Purebloods and Halfbloods, and a high tax for Mudbloods. Then again, an equal tax for everyone sounds appealing as well. Now shut the door and have a seat."

"That's funny. Five minutes ago, you were explaining the meaning of 'individual'."

"Five minutes ago, we weren't talking about what I'd do with a conquered world."

Seraphine did as she was asked, conjuring up an elegant powder-blue chair in Rococo style for herself, and they continued debating the minutiae of running a magical government, covering everything from love potions to magical-creature legislation. The Bonaparte girl had interesting views on both: love potions, she said, had nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with compulsion, meaning they had to be controlled by law, while those magical creatures that were able to think for themselves at an approximately human level should be educated. No surprise there, Riddle thought, given that she was some form of creature herself—although no book had much to say on _what_ she was.

"How does the legal system work here?" Seraphine asked.

"For a serious crime? The Minister asks the questions, then the lawyers for each side, and the Wizengamot—they're the ones who make the laws—vote on guilt or innocence. It's all very civilised and efficient. I imagine it's not much different across the Channel."

" _Au contraire_. The French judicial chamber is separate from the government; our trials have three judges, or seven, or nine, and they give their decision in writing, with reasons."

At this moment, the door slid open, and in walked Abraxas Malfoy, a lit pipe bobbing in his mouth. Tom fanned the air to no avail, stifling a cough. Malfoy pulled a paper bag out of his pocket, magically enlarged it, and plonked it noisily on the desk.

"Hiya, Bonaparte! Thought you'd be a mite peckish, so I brought you some sweets. What about you, Riddle? Plotting and scheming?"

Seraphine attacked the bag with a vengeance. Inside were Ice Mice, Liquorice Snaps, Sugar Quills, Every-Flavoured Beans, Acid Pops, even two or three of the nameless blood-flavoured lollies that Tom liked so much. They all helped themselves to a selection, licking, chewing, and munching away as they talked.

"Oh, both of us are," Seraphine said with an ear-to-ear grin. "We're discussing what to do once we've conquered the world. What would you do to the British legal system, given the chance?"

"Me? Oh, I'll be dead before I can make any changes, so why should I even bother? Who cares about the opinions of a sissified, ineffectual, dragon-poxed upper-class twit?"

"Out with it, Brax," Tom encouraged. "You keep saying that blood will out. Lucius Malfoy is the best advocate in all of Britain; some of his genius must have rubbed off on his son."

"That's the point. After Father, anything I'd contribute to the legal world would just be a massive letdown, and it won't be long before my body's as useless as this damned leg, and burning in pain to boot."

"Don't say that, Abraxas! You'll make a _legendary_ lawyer," Seraphine said, giving him such a radiant smile that he went weak in the knees and started bleeding from the nose. "Come on, nitpick our courts to bits. Let's see if they can stand up to the Malfoy treatment."

"Merlin's saggy balls. Where do I start? Well, French judges have a well-deserved reputation for being human _girouettes_ —weathercocks is the English word, I think. They never judge a case the same way twice. One man murders his father and gets the sword; another does the same and gets fifteen years on Tabor Island. Administrative judges are more consistent. They'll render the same verdict every time—but only after the pursuer has shuffled off his mortal coil and departed this vale of tears. If I were to reform the French system, I'd tell the normal judges to make up their minds, and I'd give the admin judges a good, solid kick in the pants."

"I wonder if you see anything _good_ in the French system," Tom said jubilantly.

"It's a damn sight better than what's available here. I believe the people that are best placed to interpret the law are the ones that wrote it, so at least we're doing the right thing there, but aside from that, the French are miles—sorry, kilometres—ahead of us. Two words: judicial nullification. The Wizengamot votes for guilt or innocence in open court. Can't you see the problem in that arrangement?"

"Some of us don't _get_ the chance to absorb law by osmosis," retorted Tom.

"Os— _what_? Never mind. The problem is that the Wizengamot doesn't _explain_ their verdicts. They can find a person innocent because they like him, or he's holding the purse-strings, or they think the law is wrong and haven't the balls to make a new one—any reason at all except for 'he didn't do it'—and there's nothing you or I can do about it. I'd randomly pick three of the bastards and have them render written judgement. If the accused doesn't like it, I'd let him appeal to the full Wizengamot, but I wouldn't have it as a trial court. Then there's the admin law situation. If someone's suing a part of the Ministry, say the Auror office for making an improper arrest, you can't have the people that make up their pay packets judge them as well. Again, though, it won't happen, so what's the sense in talking about it?"

"You need to work on your self-confidence. Riddle already has a plan to become Minister for Magic, and I think it's even workable!"

"I didn't say that," Riddle corrected. "I had a plan to get control of England, but only from behind the scenes, being the man behind the Man as it were. It was one I came up with when I was matey with Mulciber and Jugson, so you might find it a bit… distasteful."

"You're not getting off that easily, Riddle," said Seraphine, punctuating the statement with that infectious, tinkling laugh of hers. "Come on, as you say… out with it."

"Here goes. I'd find a teaching post at Hogwarts or perhaps Beauxbatons—you did say they didn't learn the Dark Arts, and I'd dearly like to remedy that… deficiency. I'd make it known that I held a popular opinion on a polarising topic, one on which everyone has an opinion… say, blood purity. The less intellectual sort would eat it up like pudding. Through contact with children from the… better… families, I'd be assured of making it into Society's good books, at which time I could… convince… the Wizengamot or the foreign equivalent that co-operation with my goals would be a life-preserving action."

"How devious—how _evil_!"

"There's no such thing as good or evil except in children's fairy tales," Tom said with a smile. "There's only power and those too weak to seek it."

"Speaking of… what are you doing reading _Beedle the Bard_?" asked Malfoy.

"Personal project."

"Well, we won't press you," said Seraphine, with a tone of finality and a pointed look at Abraxas. "I heard of your teaching adventures in Potions, when Professor Slughorn wasn't feeling well… anyway, your plan is rather good, and I'd recommend sticking to it for the most part. Best of all, with Malfoy around, you won't _need_ to threaten families, because the Blacks and Carrows will at least _respect_ him."

"This is _my_ plan," Tom retorted. "I don't _need_ help. I can manage perfectly well on my own."

"Five minutes ago, though, you acknowledged that you _did_. No man can see further than his fellows, except by standing on the shoulders of giants. I'm offering Abraxas the chance to see further, and I'm offering you the power you crave. So, how's about it? Friends?"

"My friends are few and far between, mostly because anything I get close to withers and dies—call it the Dementor's touch if you must. That said, I'm prepared to consider a… civilised professional acquaintance, hopefully to persist outside of these four walls."

"Put it here, then," said Malfoy. "Now, this scheme of ours needs a name."

"Well, we came up with it over sweets, right? Which rot your teeth? How about the Rotfang Plan?"

"Oh, I'll do you one better. The Rotfang Conspiracy. Sounds more… dramatic. Now, dinner's about to be served, and I still haven't shown you the Slytherin common room. If you're like me, Bonaparte, I think you'll love it."

* * *

The Slytherin House Combination Room, to use its official name, could only be described as large and cavernous—perhaps the largest of the common rooms, if one did not count the Senior Combination Room, where the staff socialised. Unlike some parts of the dungeons at Hogwarts, there was no danger of hitting one's head on the ceiling, which was glass and provided a splendid view of the aquatic life resident in the Great Lake. In addition to the natural light let in by the ceiling and reinforced windows, there were three overhead lamps with green glass shades, as well as a few on the tables. The walls were of rough-hewn limestone panelled with snakewood. Although there were no statues or portraits except one of the Founder, every inch of the common room was decorated in wrought silver: snakes, symbolic of cunning and nobility, accompanied skulls, as a reminder of Atropos, the great leveller. Seating consisted of gleaming black leather chesterfields that were neither too soft nor too hard, and two giant fireplaces, furnished with impenetrable silver shutters, provided for heating and communication.

Besides Tom, Malfoy, and Seraphine, there were but two occupants: an unknown boy was kneeling on the rug in front of one of the fireplaces, probably a first-year Flooing home, while Eleanor Prince sat beside one of the tables watching the clock on the wall and rhythmically stirring a silver cauldron with a glass rod: seven times widdershins, once sunwise, seven times widdershins, once sunwise. Ingredients and equipment for the potion she was brewing were spread out in front of her: a graduated cylinder, a beaker, sloth brains, and a handful of Sopophorous Beans. Something to promote sleep, then, Tom thought, but what?

"I'm not like you in the slightest, Tom!" Seraphine said, almost shivering, even though the room was far too warm.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Oh, you said I'd love the Slytherin Common Room if I was anything like you. I'm not."

"Too awe-inspiring for you? Well, most students get used to it, at least."

"Malfoy—just the man I was waiting for," Ellie Prince interrupted in her thick Pitmatic, still stirring her potion. "Got your Draught almost ready."

"Much thanks. How did you know it was me?"

"I heard the door shut, but no footsteps. Easy."

"Right. Well, this is not a potion—this is a masterpiece. What a lovely shade of… transparent!"

"Two drops will knock you right out. Enjoy your oblivion."

"I will, believe you me. It's a great change from waking up screaming in the middle of the night."

Seraphine murmured something in French; Abraxas tore himself away from the potion that would give him welcome respite from the fire that forever burned in his left leg, at least for six hours in every twenty-four, and comforted the girl in her native tongue. She seemed to calm down slightly afterwards.

"What's she saying?"

"She was asking if the ceiling would quite hold. The poor girl's afraid of _water_ …" Seraphine stared daggers at him. "Oh, Seraphine, darling, you wouldn't mind giving me a hand in the morning, would you, old girl?"

"No problem." Mona Lisa smile.

"I plan to sleep tonight, and I mean _sleep_ until I'm given the antidote, which I hope will be in the morning. You wouldn't mind making sure that happens, would you?"

"Of course not." Big smile. "What's Hogwarts without the King of Slytherin—even if he _can't keep a secret_?"

"I'm in 7C. There's a glass of Wiggenweld on my side table."


	3. Join the Party

To Tom, the next month or so was nothing if not a sort of blur. Things had settled into a rather predictable, unspectacular routine; Dark Arts followed Charms on Thursday, Potions and History on Friday, and so on. Thankfully, Alchemy and Potions were less so. The experience was largely like what he imagined university to be: students followed broadly the same milestones in class, but people—including the professors—always had special projects on the side, and they would dedicate some time every week in working on them. Slughorn had taken some people aside after class for reasons about which he knew nothing, while Flamel had moved on from safety and nomenclature to the actual transmutation of metals.

The final nomenclature class had been… interesting, more for the rest of the students than for Riddle himself. Flamel had introduced some metals by their so-called 'French' names, for 'reasons of international co-operation': gold was still gold, but maidenling was palladium, ymirstuff was uranium, and Pinto silver was platinum. It was as if a lightbulb had suddenly turned on in Tom's head. He'd spent perhaps eighty of his limited hours in learning the correspondence between mickledrive ores and kernel ores, only to find that the so-called Uncleftish Beholding was nothing more or less than atomic physics! That was bad enough, but at that precise moment, his stool had chosen to give way, and the delicate dam holding back the few emotions he had burst as if it were made of paper. Needless to say, the book he'd loaned from the library was swiftly turned to smoke and ash, which was bad; Tom Marvolo Riddle, Junior had _embarrassed himself_ , which was worse; and Professor Flamel merely sat in his chair and _chuckled_ , which was worst of all.

Things weren't _all_ bad, though. After satisfying himself that Tom knew the difference between base and noble metals and much more besides, Flamel had taught him two charms—one for changing the colour of nickel-containing glass, and one for inducing a localised magnetic field—and given him unfettered access to his personal library. Tom had ambitiously selected a few books on the transmutation process to be followed in the absence of a Philosopher's Stone, and he had set about his chosen task with alacrity.

If students in Tom's other classes had noticed anything, it was that the boy had gained a new hobby: obsessively watching the nearest clock, day and night. They simply didn't understand that though the process of turning copper into ruthenium wasn't a difficult one, if directions were followed, it was… unforgiving of errors… and the four necessary spells had to be done in precisely the right order, at the right time over an eleven-day interval. In fact, thanks to his impecunious state, Tom had been forced to labour for three days to Transfigure a stone into a pocket watch equipped with an alarm.

The reason he'd chosen ruthenium was simple, but he kept it to himself like the apple of his eye—although no doubt most students would figure it out eventually. All so-called celestial transmutations had what Tom called side-effects: with lead to gold came the possibility of increasing one's intelligence, silver to iron could soothe one's mind, iron to silver had explosive results, and gold to lead worked every time without fail. Copper to ruthenium was famous for extending the alchemist's life, although this was not indefinite and did not always happen. Still, no wonder that specific experiment was so popular—for a certain definition of 'popular', that is.

Staff and students frequently joined Tom in the Alchemy lab, but they had their own schedules, especially if they were doing celestial transmutation as he himself was. Malfoy usually turned up with an armful of medical texts authored by everyone from Paracelsus to Mungo Bonham, and invariably worked alone in silence with his plants. Bonaparte usually partnered up with Nick, who continued his research despite having completed the Great Work; they tended to work best with a phonograph playing the latest Glenn Miller record. The rest of the students had their own peculiarities, popping in and out as needed for their own work, even interrupting classes to cast that all-important spell. Tom didn't care overmuch as long as they kept the supply cupboard tidy and the gas cylinder full.

Ding.

"Professor, may I be excused for a moment?" Tom asked.

"Certainly, m'boy," Slughorn answered. "Any reason in particular?"

"Alchemy transmutation… next door… urgent…"

"Very impressive! Please do hurry back!"

Tom quickly added two mistletoe berries to his nearly-complete Antidote to Common Poisons and brought the heat up to three hundred and eighty-three Kelvin for twenty-five seconds. Ding. He reduced the heat again, adding two sprigs of lavender. Ding. Twelve minutes to brew. DING. DINGDINGDING.

"All right, all right, I'm coming—oh, bugger. Hell and damnation!"

The Alchemy lab was deserted, or at least seemed to be; the phonograph in the corner was playing Glenn Miller's 'In The Mood', indicating that Flamel and Bonaparte were bound to be nearby. Unfortunately, neither of them had thought to replace the gas cylinder, and Tom's half-finished experiment had fully solidified in its graphite crucible. For some unknown reason, the transmuting spells worked only on fluid matter, but apparently the metals could cool down in the time betwixt and between with no problem; the black cloud signifying the beginning of the transmutation process still surrounded the crucible—a good sign.

" _Monsieur_ Riddle! Language, please!"

"Sorry, Professor, only someone forgot to replace the gas…"

"Oh, move _over_! Let me."

Seraphine thrust her left hand between the crucible and the dead Teclu burner, screwing up her eyes in what looked like intense concentration. The effect was as surprising as it was instant; blue flames danced in her outstretched hand, warming the copper back into a workable state. Simultaneously, there was a sound as if of fabric being rent—indeed, the fabric of her robes _had_ ripped in two places, revealing… wings? Yes, two white, fluffy wings, like those of an angel.

"How are you even _doing_ that?"

Tom knew how to ignite his dresser without a wand, just as Dumbledore had shown him before he'd gone up to Hogwarts, but as far as he knew, there was no way to create fire in the hand without seriously burning oneself.

"I'll tell you later. Quick—I can't keep this up forever."

" _Finis albedo!_ " Tom incanted, moving his wand in the rough shape of a crescent moon. "One Piccadilly, two Piccadilly, three Piccadilly…"

Slowly, the black cloud surrounding the molten copper receded, to be replaced by a white glow—but then again, the material in the crucible could no longer be said to _be_ copper, because it had lost its colour and was now silver.

"Time!"

" _Vicis citrinitas!_ "

Carefully, in one fluid motion of the hand, Tom drew the sign of Mercury in the air: a semicircle, then a circle, then a cross. The ruthenium—or rather, silver-coloured copper, as it had only taken on the _characteristics_ of ruthenium but not its _identity_ —turned sulphurous yellow and began to bubble, signifying a successful spell. Simultaneously, a ball of white light, perhaps an inch in diameter, rose out of the bubbling mixture and hit him square in the chest.

"What the bloody Hell was that?"

"That, Tom, was your side-effect," Seraphine said with a smile. "Well done, by the way—on the first try, too! Come back in, oh, a hundred and thirty hours."

"I certainly will. Oh, I almost forgot—thank you—whatever you did—the flame trick, I mean."

"It was nothing. What are friends for?"

"Didn't we agree you wouldn't consider yourself my friend?" Tom said, making to leave.

" _You_ agreed. _I_ lied!" shouted Seraphine as Riddle was halfway out the door.

* * *

Tom's excellent performance in Potions—in spite of the five minutes he took to correct his Alchemy experiment—netted him and his partner Eileen Prince a small flagon of Veritaserum each. Slughorn certainly loved giving prizes away, and Tom revelled in getting them. He didn't rightly know what to do with this one, but it was an advanced potion with a long shelf life, and he knew a use for it would eventually present itself.

The next class was History, taught on the second floor by a delightful chap named Cuthbert Binns. He was an old man who regularly brought his impeccably-behaved whippet to class with him, assigned detentions for spurious reasons, wore tweed suits that perpetually smelled of mothballs, and had a voice that could put half the class to sleep. Tom, however, had figured out the secret to keeping the class interesting and lively: one had to ask questions.

"Mr Rosemont!" said Binns as soon as class had started.

"It's Rosewood, Sir."

"You smell, Rosewood! Twenty-five points from Hufflepuff. To-day is a Hogsmeade week-end. I advise you to use the opportunity to procure some soap!"

"Sorry, Sir."

"Don't apologise—but please take advantage of the school showers. They are free, you know. Now, the subject of our lesson to-day is rather esteemed in this school, chiefly because he had a quarter-stake in building it. Salazar Slytherin was born in the Year of Our Lord, 972, in a then small market town called Cambridge. Known as Serpent-Tongue, he was renowned as a master duellist, alchemist, and Healer, loved for his ability to give life, but feared for his proficiency at taking it away…"

Binns droned on and on. Tom thought about raising his hand to liven the class up, but thought better of it, because Eileen Prince had fallen clean asleep, using a pile of Potions books as a pillow. The class would liven _itself_ up, because Binns had a very interesting habit. Tom laughed inwardly and silently counted down from five. At three, Binns saw the sleeping Eileen as well; at one, he stooped over to pick up a small red leather ball with white stitching; at zero, he lobbed it straight at the sleeping girl's head.

"Bloody hell!"

"Perhaps some of you have come to Hogwarts with the firm conviction that you possess abilities so formidable that they obviate the need to pay attention, Miss Queen, but may I remind you that this is a classroom, not a dormitory?"

"Apologies, Professor. They were great men in those days, yes."

"Master… master… not safe here… I smell danger…"

Well, that's odd, Tom thought. His neighbours were paying attention to the lecture, yet he could swear he distinctly heard a quiet but perfectly normal girl's voice warning him of trouble. Only one thing to do, then. Without warning, he stood up in his seat.

"What on earth are you doing, Mr Puzz—er, Mr Ques—er, Thomas?"

"Right, everyone. I can't explain now, but drop whatever you're doing, get out of your seats, and LEG IT!"

It was nothing to do with magic, or at least so he thought, but when Tom Riddle spoke in a certain way, people _listened_. He reasoned that it was much like students obeying a teacher—perhaps it was courtesy, perhaps something else, but his voice had naturally been endowed with a sort of firm Authority. Even Binns was hobbling out of the classroom on his cane. That said, although Tom _had_ told the class to vacate the room, he had forgotten to tell them to do so _calmly_ , and a few of the girls were positively _screaming_. Still, it wasn't a minute too soon.

BANG.

"Oh, dearie me," Binns said.

Tom leant back against the nearest stone wall and began to think. What was above the History of Magic classroom? The space below had been unused for decades, and if the explosion had taken place there, the floor would have caved in… oh. Oh.

"Oh, dearie me, indeed," he sardonically agreed. "You'd think by the age of seventeen, students would have learned to read—or if not, to recognise the noises coming out of their teacher's mouth as _speech_ … could have been me in there… oh, bugger…"

He looked around and took stock of his surroundings. His feet had unconsciously led him to the girls' toilet on the second floor, right above the Great Hall. Binns, true to form, had followed his star student like a lost puppy. For some reason, he was wolf-whistling.

"Max! Max! Come here, Max!"

 _Oh, right. That mutt of his._

"Max is dead."

Tom delivered the news calmly, without inflection, and crawled back into the depths of his mind. The girl's warning was oddly worded. He did command respect, and sometimes fear—much of which manifested as contempt for some reason—but no student would call Tom 'master', would she? Perhaps someone with a… barely-supressed submissive bent… no, that possibility wasn't worth thinking about. Then again, from a certain point of view, Tom's subconscious mind was his servant, but why would it _speak_ to him, in a _female_ voice no less? He tore himself away from his ruminations and dragged himself back into present time.

"MAX!"

"Do you really think Max would survive being squashed by a masonry ceiling, Professor? He's passed on. He's ceased to be. He's expired and gone to meet his Maker. He's a crumpet. Bereft of life, he rests in peace. Once you bury him, he'll be pushing up the daisies. His metabolic processes are firmly in the realm of history. He's kicked the bucket, shuffled off his mortal coil, run down the curtain, and joined the choir invisible," Tom said slowly and distinctly. "My actions saved the lives of thirty-odd students, Sir, but instead of recommending that I be given some sort of… of recognition, you're wasting time and oxygen—sourstuff, I mean—vainly calling your _ex-dog_!"

To his surprise and amusement, tears were running down the old man's face. Accordingly, Tom did the only logical thing under the circumstances: he doubled over in audible mirth, running out of breath twice before his raucous laughter gave way to a soft chuckle. Once his amusement had entirely petered out, cold reason set in. He would be hounded by thankful students as well as those curious about how he'd managed to avert a catastrophe—a question Tom himself was unable to answer. Of course, he could make up an entirely plausible lie, but that took _effort_ … voices in his head did not bode well, either, which meant he needed to research the phenomenon before someone got hurt… oh, would that he could become invisible! He'd heard of a charm that did just that, but he'd stupidly concentrated purely on Alchemy, the Dark Arts, and finding something, anything about his family. Where was Malfoy? He'd definitely know how to hide from a crowd. The boy _had_ mentioned a Runes essay… ah.

Tom made his way to the dungeons, gave the password—Macchiavelli—and looked around the Slytherin common room. Dutch Verwoerd was there, along with a short first-year by the name of John Umbridge, and Orion Black. Oh, there was Brax, napping upright in an armchair, pipe still burning, chin touching his chest, and silky blond hair falling all over his face. A saucer of coagulated blood sat on the table before him, accompanied by a glass phial of his medicine. Tom shook Abraxas awake.

"Hmm? Oh, Riddle. Good to see you. Erm, don't be caught anywhere near the Alchemy lab, I bumped into Frenchie fifteen minutes ago and he was _livid_ …"

"The ex-Alchemy lab, you mean. Listen, Abraxas, I need to become invisible for a few minutes. Can you help?"

"I reckon I can, yeah. Fan-club giving you trouble?"

"Not yet, but they will in a few minutes, once they hear I saved their necks…"

"Right. This is called a Disillusionment Charm."

Tom felt the tap of Abraxas' wand on his head, followed by a moist, viscous sensation akin to egg-white progressively coating his body. Looking at his feet, he saw that they hadn't become _invisible_ , exactly, but they _had_ assumed the colour and texture of the floor beneath, which was almost as good. Now for the next part of his slowly-coalescing plan.

"We need to talk somewhere we will not be overheard. Bear in mind that it happens to be a Hogsmeade week-end."

"Right. I'll just make myself presentable, yeah?"

"No. I know how long you take and this is urgent. By the way, I do believe you spend too much time with Verwoerd."

"I won't ask you how you came up with that. Well, let's go. D'you think Boney needs to know about this?"

"She can wait until an appropriate opportunity presents itself—unless you can find her in under a minute."

They made their way to the gates of Hogwarts, where Horace Slughorn stood guard, _exeat_ book in hand. Strangely, Abraxas had a bit of a spring in his step, even as he leant upon his cane; he approached the professor first and was duly signed out. Slowly, without a word, Riddle mentally reached for the thread of magic inside him, pulling, grasping, willing the fat man's mouth shut as he followed Malfoy out the castle gate.

"Rest easy, Professor. I'm Riddle, second year, Slytherin. I just saved thirty students' lives. In five minutes, a gaggle of girls from Years One and Two are going to be looking for me. You know very well that I refuse to be fawned upon, Sir. There's a box of sugared pineapple for your inconvenience. _Finite incantatem_."

"Say no more, old boy!"

"Oh, I'll say one more," joked Tom. "I'm looking for information about a person. Last known address—that sort of thing."

"Magical or Muggle?"

"Would I be asking if I knew, Professor?"

"For a witch or wizard, try owling Hatch, Match, and Despatch at the Ministry of Magic—Births, Marriages, and Deaths, I mean. For a Muggle, you'll naturally want the Muggle Publications Office. Ask for the fellytone directory; I did it myself a few years ago when my admissions letters weren't getting replies—you'll need to know the county, or else get every one if you don't know."

"It's telephone, and thank you, Professor!"

Tom ducked into the nearest alley, cast the counter-charm on himself, and ran to catch up with Abraxas.

"It happens to be my first week-end in Hogsmeade. We need to talk somewhere quiet."

"You said you wanted privacy, yeah? The old pater told me that quiet and privacy don't go together."

"I dare say your father's right. Let us find somewhere noisy, then."

Riddle followed Abraxas up High Street and into a pub with three brooms 'levitating' under a steel bar perpendicular to the entrance—the rope or chain holding the broomsticks up had obviously been Disillusioned just as he himself had. The atmosphere inside was nothing short of Bedlam. Three grey-haired men in blue uniforms, as tired and emotional as newts, were sat around a table singing a jaunty song about a ship by the name of _Venus_ at the top of their lungs—and they were the quietest ones there!

"Absinthe and a glass of milk, please, Robert!" Abraxas shouted to the barman.

"Twelve Knuts!"

Malfoy tendered a Sickle in payment and waited for his drinks. Robert the barman poured one milk and one absinthe, took a bottle of fresh water and a sugar bowl from under the bar, arranged everything on a small silver tray, and left seventeen Knuts change on the bar. Malfoy took the tray, left the money—he hated the copper bastards weighing down his pockets—and made his limping way to the booth in which Tom was already waiting. He dropped the glass of absinthe in front of his friend and took the milk for himself.

"I've seen what spirits do to a man—or woman, rather. Thank you, but no."

"Oh, come on, Tom. Live a little."

"Is it not abundantly clear to you that I am not a little, but very much alive? Don't you ever call me Tom. Again, no."

" _Fine_ ," Malfoy said, exasperation evident in his voice, and switched the drinks. "Now tell me what was so important you couldn't wait for me to get presentable."

"I can not help but notice you've been reading a lot of books on Healing. I _hate_ to importune you thus, but I need your help, and it _absolutely_ must stay a secret."

"This doesn't bode well."

"I'll have you swear the Unbreakable Vow."

"This _really_ doesn't bode well, but I know you've got your reasons."

Malfoy stood up and again made his limping way to the bar, shuddering at the prospect of his own death should he fail to fulfil his word, but the situation seemed grave, and his father had repeatedly emphasised the need to keep secrets confidential.

"What can I do for you, Brax?" asked the barman.

"I need a Bonder," Malfoy almost mouthed.

Robert's jaw literally dropped.

"Are you q-quite sure? You do understand the con-c-con-consequences of a m-mis-mis-step, d-don't you?"

"My father is the best advocate this side of the Channel," said Malfoy grimly. "I'm afraid I understand the consequences all too well."

"Very well, then."

Robert followed Abraxas back to his booth and asked for his full name and that of Tom. Riddle drew a Muggle pen out of his pocket, scrawled the text of the Vow on a scrap of parchment, and handed it to the barman, who looked it over, shuddered, and touched his rather short wand to the boys' conjoined hands.

"Abraxas Maximilian Malfoy, you will not knowingly, and other than under illegal duress, divulge any meaningful part of the conversation between now and the moment either yourself or Thomas Marvolo Riddle, Junior writes or utters the word 'Cancelled' to anyone other than Seraphine Bonaparte, without permission, written or spoken, from Mr Riddle. Do you Vow to keep the preceding covenant on pain of death?"

"I do so Vow."

A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from the wand and wound its way around the boys' hands like a white-hot wire.

"Thomas Marvolo Riddle, Junior, do you Vow on pain of death that you will give the cancelling instruction before either of you leave the confines of the premises of the pub known as the Three Broomsticks?"

"I do so Vow."

Another tongue of flame joined the first. Malfoy hurriedly let go of Tom's hand.

"I'm that good a friend," he said brusquely. "Talk."

"I suspect… no, I am convinced.. that I am losing my marbles."

"Oh, really," said Malfoy. "What brings you to that conclusion?"

"I've been hearing voices. Girls' voices."

"It's good to know you're not deaf."

"I meant in my head!"

"I think that Vow took your sense of humour with it! Are the voices narrating your thoughts? Arguing? Threatening you?"

"It was one voice warning me. I legged it and the ceiling fell in on my class three seconds later."

"I can tell you, beyond reasonable doubt, that you're not going mad," Malfoy said. "Not only did the voice not fit the usual pattern as far as auditory hallucinations are concerned, but you've also maintained a good, solid hold on reality. If you were suffering from dementia præcox, this would not be the case. Still, it's certainly interesting. There are a few explanations, most of which are good news—well, all, really, just… varying levels of good. Did you see anything at the same time?"

"There were no visions, if that's what you are after. It was a perfectly normal, feminine voice, as if a girl was sitting next to me and making conversation."

"Well, you're evidently no Oracle, nor a Seer either. You have, however, been studying Legilimency. I assume you know the Link can be used for silent communication. Was anyone making eye contact with you?"

"Other than Professor Binns? I think not, but perhaps… nice of the girl to do that."

"Indeed. Have you been getting headaches?"

"Only the occasional light one—too much studying, I suppose."

"Merlin's saggy balls. I suppose your mind could be incubating a Spirit of Intellect."

"I take it that's bad."

"It's not so much bad as… risky. I'll have to talk to Boney—she's far more comfortable than I with this sort of thing—but before I do, how well-versed are you in the life of Zeus?"

"You mean Mount-Olympus, thunder-and-lightning all-father Greek Zeus? I've read the Iliad and Theogony, so I suppose I know enough."

"This ties into it. I don't remember the whole conversation I had with Seraphine, so I'll get her on the looking-glass and we'll have a chin-wag about your… condition."

"On the what?"

In lieu of answer, Abraxas drew a small clamshell mirror from his robes, opened it, and said Seraphine's name. The mirror shook for a moment before Malfoy's own reflection turned into the girl's; they had a long conversation entirely in French, with Bonaparte visibly growing ever more worried by the second. Finally, Malfoy said his 'au revoir', severed the connexion and stowed the looking-glass back in his pocket.

"It's funny that this should happen to a Slytherin—her symbol was the snake, you see—well, I suppose I'd best start from the beginning. Greek myths agree that Zeus' _membrum virile_ was very _virile_ indeed. One of his many conquests was a… being by the name of Metis. Now, because of a prophecy that Metis' child would outstrip her dad in the power department, Zeus sort of came to regret getting his leg over. Consequently, he murdered Metis and ate her. Muggle myths say an act of conception had taken place, magical analysis disagrees; Muggles say Zeus and his lot were gods, wizard myths disagree. At some point in the future, though, everyone agrees that Pallas Athena burst from Zeus' head, fully formed and blessed with intelligence and wisdom beyond compare."

"I know that story quite well. It's rather uplifting, and I like Athena."

"You won't like it as much when something like her is popping out of your head—and I mean that in the most literal sense imaginable."

"Don't tell me."

"Even if against all odds you complete the Great Work, you'll 'only' manage immortality. What you want is amortality, and that's a _very_ dicey proposition."

"Hmm, I've actually been thinking about that. I don't particularly… relish… the idea…"

"I'd think twice if I were you. Do you really want the destruction of not one, but three souls weighing on your conscience?"

"If I had a conscience, I certainly wouldn't," Tom joked-only-not-really.

"There's a better way, Riddle. You'll want to see a very good Legilimens. He'll, erm, draw the spirit out and bind it to something less fragile than your skull. Professor Dumbledore would do it."

"Anyone but him."

"There's the Obstetrics ward at St Mungo's, but that would cost you a pretty Knut."

"Canc—"

"Before you cancel the Vow, what exactly did you hear? I'm quite curious. Spirits of Intellect are very rare, you see."

"I quote: Master, master, not safe here, I smell danger."

"Well, colour me surprised!" Malfoy said, laughing out loud. "Even with the complicated relationship my father and I share… well, I haven't the faintest idea what you were hearing, but intellect—capitalised or not—has nothing to do with it."

"What?"

"Have you ever known a child to call either of its parents Master? Father, yeah—Pater, or Dad, or Daddy even…"

"Make some bloody sense, Malfoy!"

"Well, you see…" the blond said slowly and distinctly, as if he were talking to a mental defective, "when two souls love each other very much…"

"Cancelled! I get the point! My head isn't… pregnant!"

"Glad I could get it into your thick skull!" Abraxas said with a grin. "Where to next? Or d'you want back to school?"

Tom kept his mouth shut. Out of the corner of his right eye, he'd seen the air _ripple_ as if someone had thrown a stone into a lake on a windless day. Suspecting—nay, knowing—something deviated from normality, he reached out with his thankfully long arm, felt silk, and pulled for all he was worth. To his surprise, Abraxas took the initiative and confronted the eavesdropper.

"Did your mother never tell you it's rude to spy, Potter? I mean, when she wasn't standing naked in a Knockturn Alley window."

"I consider it my public duty to watch evil scum of the Earth such as you are," Charlus Potter said smugly. "Still, I'm disappointed in you, Riddle. I thought this'd be another one of your conspiracy meetings—but no, you're just hearing voices… slowly going mad… must be torture, eh, knowing that your mind's going down the toilet?"

Like a corporeal Patronus from the mists, a plan was beginning to coalesce in Tom's mind. Potter was _after something_ , that was certain—depending on what it was, he might even get it, but it would cost him dearly, seventh-year or not, champion dueller or not. Tom untied his lanyard, unbuckled the strap of his wand holster, and passed the end of the silver chain across the table to Malfoy.

"Abraxas, old boy, you wouldn't mind taking a hold of that, would you? My wand's on the other end, you see. I'm this close to losing it, and I don't want to cause too, too much of a stir," he said calmly, even genially, channelling the voice of Horace Slughorn. "Mr Potter, the floor is yours. To what do we owe your august company?"

"Conspiracy to pervert the course of justice—that's worth life on the Rock. Conspiring to threaten public officials, _id est_ members of the Wizengamot, will net you another life sentence… and conspiracy to _murder_ Professor Dumbledore… well, Tom, I do believe you'll have to face your worst fear for that little escapade of yours."

"We did no such thing!" protested Malfoy.

"Do I need to quote? There was something about adopting a pure-blood agenda, quote-unquote persuading families of good standing to bend the knee—oh, yes, Dumbles has got to go is what I believe you said."

"Through the political process! Or he'd get himself blown up by the Enemy—everyone knows they're at it like hammer and tongs!" Abraxas shouted. "Conspiracy to murder might be against the law, but conspiracy to lean on the Board of Governors sure isn't!"

"That's not what I'll tell Professor Dippet. I don't have to show him the whole memory—just the juiciest parts, of course…"

"I suppose you've got us bang to rights," Tom conceded, still extremely calm. "I've only two questions for you: how, and why?"

"You use a steel pen, correct?" Potter said with a smirk. "Very distinctive. Listening charm designed by a friend. Password-protected, undetectable, and there's even a duress code."

"Show me."

Tom pulled the expensive pen from his shirt pocket—the only thing he had from his father—and slid it across the table. Potter touched his wand to it and performed a long counter-spell that sounded almost like a song. The pen glowed blue for a second or two, then faded.

"You still haven't told us why," Malfoy seethed, "you'd perjure yourself in open court like that. I thought you Gryffs had an unhealthy pre-occupation with the concept of honour."

"I'd have thought you'd have worked it out for yourselves by now. Call it revenge for your father getting countless criminals off on all manner of technicalities—-thieves, rapists, traitors, murderers that my family has spent years and lost lives rounding up and arresting. There's that, plus there's the chance of putting away three Slytherins for life, i.e. two future Dark Wizards and a French strumpet."

"Cousin Dorea being the exception of course. Don't think I don't know you're spending your nights in her bed dancing the sideways Charleston," said Abraxas forcefully. "Oh. Oh. You conniving little _shit_! Cousin Dorea put you up to this, didn't she. Go on, tell me what you want… what you really, really want."

It was shocking how fast Malfoy's face could change from barely-concealed rage to an ear-to-ear grin.

"Still clueless? I want in, of course. Three people do not a political party make. Magical law enforcement, games and sports, Muggle relations, you name it, I'll do it—a million Galleons, even warming a seat on the Wizengamot."

"Politics and parties don't go together," said Malfoy. "Except after an election win… or a loss, I suppose…"

"It's a Muggle expression, Abraxas. He means we vote the same way and stick by each other," replied Tom. "It isn't free to join, you know. How about… oh, teaching me that listening charm and giving us your Cloak?"

"No can do, Riddle," said Potter, honestly disappointed. "First of all, the cloak's been in my family for generations; second, it isn't mine; and finally, yes, I do enjoy… delicacies… with Dorea-soon-to-be-Potter—we use the sofa in the Slytherin common room, you know—and we wouldn't be able to, otherwise."

"Let me see if I understand. You insult me on the Hogwarts Express, saying that my existence offends every fibre of your being. You insult my mother and Abraxas Malfoy's cousin—your fianc e, I might add—and then you announce your intention to throw, and I quote, two future Dark Wizards and a French strumpet in Azkaban for the rest of their natural lives in flagrant breach of due process and law. Finally, you announce your intention to join said Dark Wizards' nascent political party," Tom replied with an almost wistful smile on his face. "You've got balls of solid steel. I'm impressed. To tell you the truth, I don't need your Invisibility Cloak right now. When I do, I will borrow it and you shall lend it to me; right now I will thank you to teach us that spell of yours when you've the time, and perhaps I'll name you Senior Undersecretary for Mops and Brooms whenever I have the ability and inclination. Oh, and I'll be demanding satisfaction for that mountain of insults. Are we agreed?"

"That's more than reasonable, Riddle. The Duelling Society meets every Thursday, I'll bring you in as a guest any time at all."

Tom said nothing and discreetly pointed his index finger at Potter's rear. He buried his admiration for the boy's temerity, instead dredging up every drop of his rage and his forever simmering hate. Then, he reached into the magic surrounding him, pulling it inward and channeling it in a torrent through his extended finger. Finally, he thought one short, dreadful incantation and held it for a count of ten.

CRUCIO.

The young man screamed satisfyingly like a little girl for three seconds or so and abruptly stopped. Did the hex hold? Yes, it did—Potter's eyes were nice and wide. Auror training, Tom thought. He dropped the hex and let Potter have a well-deserved breather.

"Wasp sting?" asked Tom, all smiles and innocence.

"Bastard!"

"Why are you calling me a bastard? I'm _thirteen years old_ and my wand is in Malfoy's hands. Do you really think I could hex you without it, and non-verbally at that? Now, I don't particularly enjoy being spied on, but forgiveness is a virtue. My sweet tooth's playing up and I'd like to see the bookshop before it closes. Are you coming, Brax?" Tom asked, turning to Charlus Potter as he left and dropping his voice to a whisper. " _Sic semper extortorem_."

The remainder of the day passed quite nicely. Hogsmeade, Tom noted, had a certain old-world charm about it, as he walked next to Malfoy, Disillusioned once again. There had been a bit of a confrontation when Abraxas—head in the clouds, as always—had literally walked headlong into a wooden bench, waking the unkempt-looking, yellow-toothed man lying on it. The tramp had threatened Malfoy for change, staring through bloodshot, unfocussed eyes at a spot a few feet behind the blond's head—understandably, the boy was more than a little scared by the occurrence. Aside from that, the only event of note had been when the boys had passed two young witches with blood-red lips, supernaturally-pale complexions, and funereal-looking clothing. Malfoy had done a flawless, almost cinematic Double Take, then called to the girls to join 'him'.

"Lucy! Lucy, darling—been ages since I saw you here! What've you been up to?"

"Oh, you know, this and that. Business has been booming—can't ever get out of that slave-driver's clutches… Say, who _is_ that pretty young thing with you?"

Tom started. He didn't know that his disguise was that easy to see through—he would have to have a word with Brax, but at least his classmates weren't importuning him at every step, which was really the only reason he'd bothered.

"Lucy, may I present you to my good friend, Tom Marvolo Riddle? Riddle, this is Lucy Westenra, senior law-clerk at Sanguini Chambers. She works with my father, in other words. Ruxandra Tepes, Tom Riddle—Tom Riddle, Ruxy Tepes."

Much shaking of hands and how-do-you-doing ensued as Malfoy caught up with his father's colleagues. It transpired that the elder Malfoy was conducting a high-profile prosecution, which was odd given that his fame lay in his innovative legal defence work, but Riddle gathered there was an inordinate amount of subtext in the case. For ten years, Lucius Malfoy had been engaged in a vain attempt to score a sort of promotion to the post of Serjeant-at-Law, but this was very much a popularity contest having little to do with actual talent, and Malfoy, despite being _freakishly_ talented when it came to the law, was not exactly a popular man, especially with the community tasked with enforcing it. Additionally, his parentage was in question, for some reason or another. To prove his bonafides, then, Lucius had taken on the frankly Herculean task of investigating some sort of high-class conspiracy-

"We don't _know_. All Nero's been able to find out is that it involves some Muggle at Woolwich Arsenal."

"Enough shop-talk," Ruxandra said, with a slightly foreign accent. "We're boring Tom."

"No, you're not. I rather like the law. Please don't call me Tom—it's just Riddle."

"Are you looking to make it your _curriculum vitae_? The path you walk in life?"

"Not _exactly_ —I was thinking something closer to politics, quite honestly, but I haven't decided yet."

"Well, this is where we get off," said Lucy Westenra, gazing hungrily at Honeydukes' shop window. "By the way, Master Malfoy, don't torment Fenrir too much—the man's bad seed, I can smell it… the _wrongness_ …"

"We were going that way ourselves, as a matter of fact."

Unsure as to who Fenrir was, Tom followed the girls into Honeydukes. They attacked the displayed sweets with a vengeance; the three of them seemed to share a liking for those blood-flavoured lollipops and had to share them equitably, while Malfoy stood up on the tips of his toes and pulled an entire pot of Army-Navy Paregoric off the shelf.

"That'll be six and six," Melissa Honeyduke, the shopkeeper, said as she rang up the total.

"Just one more thing," added Malfoy, tendering payment. "The girls and I need somewhere… quiet and preferably dark… to have a disagreement. It should take no more than a few minutes. Could you see your way to, erm, facilitate my request?"

"No problem, Sir, no problem at all," Honeyduke said with a bow. "You can use our basement."

She bagged up Tom's lollies and Malfoy's grey, nasty-looking boiled sweets. Malfoy almost literally dragged the two girls down the stairs to the Honeydukes basement. Before he disappeared into the shop's dark bowels, he reached into his robes, pulled a dragon-skin purse out of his pocket, and threw it up the stairs with an under-arm action.

"Take my money and buy yourself something nice, Riddle. I'll catch up to you. Maybe Seraphine will, as well."

Tom was about to protest—he hated relying on the goodness and generosity of others—but Malfoy had already pulled his two female friends into the basement and locked the door. Bemused, Tom made his way out of the shop, but just as he was about to step out onto the cobbled street, he heard loud feminine giggles.

"Stop that, Malfoy! That… hahaha… that tickles!"

What an oddly _agreeable_ sort of disagreement, Tom thought.


	4. The Even Chance

Chapter 4

In the end, Seraphine Bonaparte had caught up to Tom, as Abraxas had hinted; in fact, so had Abraxas himself, after spending an hour doing... whatever he'd been doing in the Honeydukes basement. Just like that, Tom had a mystery on his plate: when Abraxas did finally make his appearance in Perenelle Flamel's bookshop, he looked tired and haggard, yet he was smiling like a cat who'd eaten the cream. Even Perenelle's needless worries about her husband's whereabouts didn't faze him.

"Just a little bit of a transmutation mishap," Malfoy had said, somewhat diffidently. "Silver to iron, if I'm not mistaken. He stayed behind to clean up."

This had turned out to be entirely the wrong thing to say.

"WHOSE BRIGHT IDEA WAS THAT? I'LL MURDER HIM! NICK COULD HAVE DIED! YOU COULD HAVE DIED!" she'd screamed, her face turning as red as an overripe tomato. "There's a reason that you _only_ do that transmutation in a concrete bunker. To be honest, I'm not sure why Hogwarts doesn't have one-Nick told me one of the Founders was an alchemist."

"Which one?" Seraphine had asked.

Ever since her transfer to Hogwarts, the girl had buried herself in her new school's history. She was quite taken aback by this tidbit; none of the books mentioned the fact.

"Salazar Slytherin, _bien sur_ -it's because of him that the class is taught!"

Just like that, Tom's thoughts returned to the Transfiguration class in which he was presently sitting. He steeled his mind, pointed his wand at the squeaking rat in front of him, and incanted:

" _Fera verto_!"

The rat smoothly turned into a beautiful silver goblet encrusted with emeralds the size of his thumb and featuring an engraving of a cobra climbing up the stem. Only two other students, Wiglaf Sigurdsson and Theodore Cholmondeley-fforbes, had yet managed to do likewise, and none of their drinkware was as nice as Tom's. Wiglaf's was a teacup of simple form, crafted out of gold with inset rings of lapis lazuli, while Theo had only managed the sort of paper cup dispensed by a water cooler.

"Well done, Wiglaf!" Albus Dumbledore said with a smile. "You too, Theodore! Twenty points to Ravenclaw!"

"What am I, invisible?" Tom muttered _sotto voce_.

"Keep at it, everyone. It doesn't need to be artistic-Transfiguration is about making things that are _functional_!"

It took a few tries for Eileen Prince to do the same as the three boys; her effort was a simple martini glass. Again, Dumbledore congratulated her, addressing her by Christian name and giving Slytherin ten points.

"I don't see why he treats you like this, Riddle," she said. "What did you ever do to him?"

"I ask myself the same question. Does he think I'll kill him if he acknowledges me for once?"

"Ain't nowt as queer as folk, and few folk are queerer'n that shining example."

"I hesitate to think what my first impression of Hogwarts would be like if he'd done the introduction."

"He _didn't_?"

"No-Humpty Dumpty did. Why?"

"Well, 's what-you-call-it-tradition-for the Deputy Headmaster to do it for Mudbloods," said Eileen. At a withering look from Tom, she added: "Yer mam and dad dead, then?"

"Mum, yeah. Probably Dad, too."

"Poor thing."

"Don't you dare pity me. Anyway, mark my words, I'll find out why the man seems to hate me."

"How're you going to do that, then?"

"Never you mind. If he puts the screws on you, you can truthfully say you know nothing," Tom said with a wink. "Call it plausible deniability."

The one good thing about Dumbledore's Transfiguration classes was that the noise level allowed conversations about most anything to take place without being disturbed or heard. Tom whiled away the time with a discussion on the use of potions in magical combat, and the class was over before he knew it. He deliberately dawdled; after almost everyone had left, he approached Dumbledore, trying to keep a cool head.

"Professor, I've heard of your expertise in duelling, and, erm, since I've got a duel coming up myself, I was wondering if you could see your way to lending me a book or two on the subject."

Dumbledore fixed Tom with a steely, narrow-eyed stare, his usually jovial demeanour visibly giving way to determined refusal, suspicion, and... fear? It was well and truly disconcerting.

"It does not do to look to violence as the foremost solution to disagreements. In the fulness of time, you will inevitably come to the realisation that the Dark Arts only ruin lives. I am afeared that it'll be too late-that you'll have been thoroughly seduced and driven to a pernicious slippery slope whose gradient increases exponentially."

"Funny you should mention the Dark Arts, Professor," Tom said with a slight smirk. "I trust you know the official definition as given by His Majesty's Ministry for Magic. 'All potions, spells, enchantments, rituals, and wards intrinsically effecting physical or mental harm to sentient life when correctly used, irrespective of the end phenomenon desired by the user.'"

"Indeed," said Dumbledore cautiously. "In their wisdom, the men who govern us have crafted a broad, comprehensive definition of the subject, yet one that does not unnecessarily tar unrelated pursuits."

Tom's blood was silently boiling. The Ministry for Magic's definition was symptomatic of a perspective that could only result from the delinquent mentation of a mountain troll with severe brain trauma. The thought process behind it overlooked the clearly self-evident, and was so short-sighted as to be blind-and Dumbledore, lauded as the best and brightest wizard of his age, took the bait hook, line, and sinker. No matter. If he ate up that sort of obvious claptrap, perhaps he fully deserved what was about to happen.

"What I've noticed is that a lot of magic, like the Magis Magnetico Charm, is very offensive but almost criminally underappreciated in the duelling context. I want to demonstrate that one can win without using a single curse, jinx, or hex, but I know how... flexible... agreements can be."

"Aha! You want a rulebook!" Dumbledore said, falling head over heels into the trap. "If you have a minute to sacrifice, Tom, I believe I may have just the thing."

His estimate was an order of magnitude too conservative, though. For some unfathomable reason, he had seen fit to keep what he was looking for under a seemingly endless pile of impedimenta. It took the Irish professor a full quarter-hour to arrange the contents of his drawers on his desk like an army on parade: bundles of parchment in folders, bundles of parchment too big to fit in folders, old issues of Transfiguration Today, bottles of ink in various degrees of emptiness, bags upon bags of sweets, variously-coloured balls of yarn, a pile of knit-and-crochet magazines two inches high, several sets of cuff links-only a minority of which matched-and a pair of almost finished, entirely hideous acid-green woollen socks.

At long last, though, the Transfiguration master had found the object of his search: a slim hardbound volume the colour of fresh blood with a white disc in the centre. On the disc was a triangular sigil, which would have looked like a staring eye if not for the line bisecting it vertically. The title of the book was printed in a very angular, thick typeface that certainly made an impression but wasn't easy to read. Tom had to prevent himself from greedily snatching the book out of Dumbledore's hands, but when he was given the chance to read it, he made a noise of dismay.

"This is... German?" Tom said uncertainly.

"But of course! The Aurors of that country would have written it in no other language. Behold the _Code Duello für Zauberpraktiker_ , by the _Hochamt des Geheime Zauberpolizei_ ," Dumbledore replied. "It was sent to me by an... old friend... who wanted me to have a copy even after all the disagreements and that final falling-out. All too often, I spend my nights... wondering... if things could have been... different-but you don't want to waste your time listening to the disjointed ramblings of a man going prematurely senile."

"Quite right, Professor. See you later!"

After another few hours spent in the library researching everything from wandless magic to enchantment of rune stones, Tom wearily took the stairs down towards the Slytherin common room, where he found the usual suspects: Seraphine, the two Prince sisters, Verwoerd, Malfoy, and a few others. He took a seat next to Verwoerd in his favourite Chesterfield; Malfoy soon joined them as well.

"I do wish you'd stop smoking that thing, Abraxas," Tom said. "It's a filthy habit."

"I do wish you'd stop complaining, Riddle," retorted Malfoy, gesturing with his meerschaum pipe. "It's an annoying habit."

"Boys-some of us are trying to read here!" Verwoerd said. "Your bickering edifies precisely nobody."

She opened her black dragon-skin handbag, drew out a packet of Karelias, lit one with a murmured _Fuego_ , and resolutely put her nose back in the cloth-bound book she'd been attempting to peruse. Tom noticed the drawing on the front: an hourglass surrounded by a snake eating its own tail.

"What _are_ you reading, Dutch?"

"'Scalled _Peripateia sto Chrono_ by Morwenna Trelawney-Lovegood. Very odd maisie, was old Morwenna-claimed to be a Seer, but never made a single prophecy. Told everyone that they wouldn't understand and to come back when they'd read her book. The title translates to _A Twist in Time_ or perhaps _Time Twister_."

In comparison to most witches and wizards, Tom had a unique outlook on Divination. From what he'd read, which admittedly was not much, it seemed to be a precise and accurate endeavour. So far as this went, Tom agreed with the minority of wizardkind that loved the subject. On the other hand, he also concurred with the sceptics in the belief that it was largely useless in practice.

The reason Tom could reconcile such diametrically opposed viewpoints was that he could see the dual purpose of the mystic and arcane rituals in which Diviners, Seers, and Oracles engaged, while the disbelievers merely saw it all as pointless. First, most practitioners of magic were hidebound traditionalists and Diviners were no exception, and second, the secrets of the Art were too precious to hand out to outsiders too lazy to open up a tin of elbow grease. No, the real reason that Divination was a mere parlour trick was that Fate had a curious love of double entendre, and it wasn't a big fan of punctuation, either.

Verwoerd's opinions were altogether more conventional: Divination was pure _kak_ , irrefutably hokum, Q. E. _blerrie_ D. Why, then, was she reading a book written by an alleged Seer, with a title as quintessentially 'oogey-boogey' as _Time-Twister_? Of course, Tom wasn't about to ask such a question. Not in those words, at least-unlike some people, he knew how to draw out answers painlessly.

"Go on," he said at last. "I'm curious-what branch of Divination is it about?"

"That's the odd thing. It's not _about_ Divination. In fact, it's not even about _magic_ -or at least, not the kind you do with a _towerstaf_. It's more like the ground rules that make the world work, starting from 'what goes up must come down except...', and going from there. There's a little bit of Alchemy, too, but very theoretical-not at all like Nick teaches us. If I had to put a name on it, I'd call it the strangest sort of Arithmancy I'd ever seen."

Tom took a moment to consider this new information. Given his particular focus in Alchemy, he was well-read on the work of one Isaac Newton, and he was enthusiastic enough about the subject that he'd kept up with later developments, culminating in four papers written by a German Muggle named Albert Einstein. Verwoerd, on the other hand, knew only what she'd learned second hand from a boy whose passion was alchemical healing. Whether that entailed what Muggles called physics and wizards called natural philosophy, Tom knew not.

"D'you mean, like, 'objects at rest'?"

"Not really-more like... oh, _bliksem en donner_ , how do I explain this... erm, so Trelawney says there are two ways to come up with Newton's laws-the way he did it, which she calls cause-and-effect," Verwoerd lectured, "and her way, which she calls max-min. She claims you'll come up with the same rules and equations either way."

"Something tells me you doubt that," Riddle said wryly.

"That's the problem. Max-min is so utterly alien compared to cause-and-effect that I haven't been able to work out a single equation! It's preying on my mind terribly - I feel like I'm a let-down for Slytherin."

"How so?" Abraxas asked. "Intellect is the Ravenclaws' stock in trade, not ours."

" _Pas exactement_!" interjected Seraphine. "What's in the room next to yours, Riddle?"

"You know it's our library," Tom said.

Slytherin did indeed have a small library for the exclusive use of its students. It was located in the deepest part of the castle, next to the staircase that led up to the S.H.C.R., and occupied what had evidently once been a boys' dormitory. Its stock was somewhat less generalist than the school's main library, but it included books on subjects that the latter did not: besides the obligatory Potions, Legilimency, and Dark Arts texts, there were books on Healing, a few on Alchemy, and for some reason, politics ('The Prince' was a big favourite, as was 'The Art of War'). The Slytherin House library differed from the large one in another crucial respect: student graffiti was accepted, and indeed welcomed.

Out of this came an almost unadulterated blessing: Slytherin students and teachers of ages past had filled every spare page with potions and spells of their own invention, giving them a competitive advantage. Anything inappropriate was simply Vanished away. Besides this beautiful and unique tradition, though, Tom didn't see the big deal; according to Slughorn, the Ravenclaw common room had every wall covered in books, and didn't every other House have its own library?

"Gryffindor doesn't have one, and Hufflepuff _non plus_. Slytherin values knowledge just as much as Ravenclaw-only for a different reason," Seraphine explained. "Ravenclaws read for the sake of reading; Slytherins read to learn something useful. It's the same for Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors: Gryffindors are goal-oriented, Hufflepuffs think work is its own reward. At least, that's what the Hat told me-and why I chose Slytherin."

"Knowledge is power," Abraxas murmured. "I don't see what kind of power you're hoping to get from a different way of deriving nat-phil equations. Cause-effect sounds perfectly adequate to me."

"That's what I'm trying to find out, hey," said Dutch. "According to Lovegood, seeing the world in max-min terms will change your life in a big way-but she refuses to say how."

"Sounds like utter malarkey to me," Tom noted. "I'm sure there's some application to max-min, but this is definitely more useful, in the short-term at least. Think you can make head or tail of it, Dutch?"

He reached into his backpack and pulled out the German Aurors' duelling rulebook. As soon as Verwoerd saw the sigil on the cover, her eyes narrowed in... suspicion, was it? No, _fear_. Definitely fear.

"Where the _blerrie fok_ did you get that?"

"Borrowed it from Dumbles," said Tom diffidently. "Now, are you going to translate it or not, Verwoerd?"

"I... I don't know if I _can_ ," the girl replied. "This is _German_... from Grindelwald's Ministry of Magic. I'm an Afrikaner!"

"Aren't they the same thing?"

"Only if Wales and England are the same thing, too. Even if I _could_ do it, though, I'm not sure I _would_..."

This turned out to have been almost exactly the wrong thing to say. Ordinarily, Tom Riddle was a happy-go-lucky chap in a lot of ways-he could be capricious on occasion, and difficult, and needy, and sometimes deeply upset, but Verwoerd had never, up 'til now, seen him _angry_... and she did not like what she was seeing.

A curious chill had descended upon the Slytherin Junior Combination Room; condensation formed on the giant glass wall keeping the freezing water of the Black Lake at bay, and the flames in the green ceiling lamps flickered ominously.

With an almost effortless wave of Tom's hand, Elspeth was hoisted unceremoniously into the air by her left ankle. It was a little trick he'd learned to get him out of a jam when he was young-so young that he didn't yet know what magic _was_. Unfortunately, he hadn't yet figured out how to mitigate the painful sensation of having an iron hook embedded in his foot-that said, that particular property was _useful_ in this case.

"Tell me the truth, Verwoerd, or by Merlin Ambrosius I'll trim the wall with your brains!"

"W-what exactly do you want to know?"

"I'm duelling Potter and can't use the Dark Arts for, erm, complicated reasons that I won't bother explaining to _you lot_. I need to... frame the challenge... in a way that'll let me bring a few, erm, prepared objects, just to even the score."

"Is that _it_?" Abraxas Malfoy said with a half-laugh. "Just invoke the Widowmaker Rule."

"Malfoy, you sorry piece of _shit_ , you've been sandbagging me!" replied Tom, although now without any actual malice in his voice.

"In all fairness, Riddle, you never _asked_. All I know is, you went haring off to Dumbledore for some reason."

"True enough." He made to leave, then 'remembered' Verwoerd still hanging by her ankle. "I'm curious, though... why?"\

"You know as well as I do that Grindelwald is a good man at heart. He'll sort Europe out... but I'm a bit nervous when it comes to his _methods_."

"Sort Europe out, eh?" Tom said, with biting sarcasm. "And after he does so, who will 'sort out' Minister Grindelwald? Anyway... it's Thursday. DuelSoc meets in ten minutes. If we hurry, we might make it. Who's coming with?"

"Count me out, Riddle... my leg hurts like billy-o."

Before exiting the common room, Tom strode toward an ebony cupboard on the wall and opened it with another wave of his hand-it wasn't like everyone _didn't_ already know of his facility with wandless magic. Inside was a standard dartboard and a selection of darts; Tom chose three with the Cross of St George on the fins, stuffed them hastily in his pockets, and murmured the incantation to Potter's tracking charm over Dumbledore's book. His preparations complete, he made purposely toward the portrait hole.

Tom arrived to the weekly meeting of the Hogwarts School Duelling Society-DuelSoc, to the initiated-in good time. A platform had been set up inside the Great Hall, and Professors Dumbledore and Merrythought were already standing on it to welcome any unexpected new arrivals. Oh, Merlin, how Tom loved magic.

"I'm calling in my duel," he said, with cold amusement in his voice. "No Dark Arts for me-and I mean the _Ministry_ definition-but I invoke the Widowmaker Rule in compensation. Turn out your pockets, Potter. There's no way you'll... slither... out of this one."

"Do I look like a _Slyther_ in to you?" Charlus Potter asked, but obeyed regardless.

"' _He who would pun would pick a pocket._ '"

Dumbledore was apprised of the situation in a few words, and Tom also used the occasion to return the professor's book, now with a listening charm on it.

" _Sonorus_! We're in for a treat to-day, my friends: Mr Riddle and Mr Potter will demonstrate an asymmetric duel," Dumbledore said, after everyone had quieted down. "Mr Riddle has voluntarily renounced the use of the Dark Arts-an obligation which does _not_ , naturally, fall on Mr Potter-and he has instead requested that the Widowmaker Rule apply to him and _only_ to him. Any breach of conditions will result in disqualification and a win by default. Are the parties ready?"

The boys ascended the podium, taking the customary ten paces. Tom brought his wand up to his nose in the duellists' salute, as tradition demanded, and bowed slightly. Potter pointedly did nothing of the sort.

"Bow, Potter... bow to _death_..."

"Never this side of Hell."

"Parties shall _bow_!" Dumbledore said officially, before retreating.

Tom thought about enforcing this edict with a wandless _Imperio_ , but he'd heard that there was some way of detecting overpowered hexes like that, even wandless ones, and it really would not _do_ to lose the duel before it had even begun. No matter... Potter had finally decided that a bit of respect wouldn't go amiss.

" _Flipendo_!"

Tom easily sidestepped the curse and waved his left hand in an almost imperceptible fashion. He wasn't sure if his plan would work, but by _Merlin_ , if it did... and it _did_. Drops of water were slowly but surely forming on the enchanted ceiling, and just as surely turning into icicles.

A roar was coming from the crowd, too-indistinctly, for a moment, then...

"Come on, Riddle!"

"You can do it, Riddle!"

 _They were cheering him on._ Well, only one thing for it, then... give them a show they'd never forget, Dark Arts, or not.

" _Serpensortia_!"

There was a quick flash of blinding light-then, the house animal of Slytherin popped out of Tom's wand, falling in a heap onto the floor. The snake was a chocolate brown colour all over, and not very big-Tom would give it six foot or so-but it was plenty big for his purposes.

"G'day, mate."

 _Well, that was an odd thing to say_ , Tom thought. Who'd be greeting him in the middle of a duel? In that odd accent, too-not quite British, but not Saffie either, and very nasal to boot.

" _Vipera evanesca_!" Potter incanted, but he luckily missed.

" _Portus_!" shouted Tom, aiming his wand at Potter's left boot. And again: " _Portus_!"

"I _said_ , 'g'day, mate'," came that insistent voice again.

"G'day to you, too-bit... busy... here! _Aguamenti_! Just who are you?"

"Down here, ya drongo!"

" _Rictusempra_! _Tarantallegra_! _Vipera evanesca_!"

Not knowing what a 'drongo' was, but fairly certain it wasn't a term of endearment, Tom cast his eyes towards the floor, making eye contact with the brown serpent.

"You're a 'drongo' yourself!" he said, almost jokingly. " _Glaciare_!"

The snake had apparently been speaking to him, because it let out the serpentine equivalent of a chuckle. Wait. _The snake had been speaking to him_. Oh, Merlin, he loved magic.

"Well, I'm only a taipan!"

"That boy's trying to kill you. Give him hell for me!"

"My pleasssssure!"

Oh, this was priceless. As planned, the floor had turned to ice, and with the snake nipping at Potter's heels, the young man had taken a nasty spill and was looking directly at the ceiling.

The crowd had gone silent too-or nearly so; their cheers had almost entirely been replaced by mutterings, and for some reason, that didn't exactly _bode well_.

"Lost your skates, Potter? _Liquesco_!"

With surgical precision, the incantation had been aimed at a quarter-inch high band at the base of the icicle directly above Potter's head. Unfortunately, _shouting_ it had not been such a good decision, as Potter quickly realised what was going on and rolled sideways as the icicle fell and shattered into atoms on the frozen floor.

"I'll get you for this," Charlus Potter said, still in a lying position. " _Incarcerous_! _Protego_!"

Tom side-stepped the Incarceration Charm. Potter had finally begun taking the match seriously, as he'd finally put his shields up, but _Tom_ still had a trick or two more up his sleeve...

" _T'es un Fourchelangue_ , Riddle! 'Ealing magic!" a high, girly voice in the crowd was saying.

" _Emendo brachium_!"

The Shield Charm was tuned, according to Riddle's copious research, to Dark Magic and to incantations whose effects were... questionable, to say the least. Needless to say, it did not work against _medical_ magic, even though the Fracture Fixer, when used incorrectly, might as well have been called the Bone Vanisher. Just a slight _twirl_ of the wand, and...

Whatever Potter was expecting, then, it certainly wasn't that Riddle's incantation would sail straight through his shield and hit him square in his wand arm, nor that said arm would become totally, completely, and utterly useless on account of the fact that his humerus and ulna had gone... well, God only knew where, really.

Still, he quickly changed wand arms and pushed himself back into a standing position. The expression on his face was unfathomable.

"You... bastard... _Reducto_! _Diffindo_!"

 _Time for my ace in the hole_ , Tom thought. He pulled one of his darts out of his pocket, pointed his wand at his shirt, then...

" _Magis diamagnetico_! _Magis magnetico_!"

The dart sailed off in Potter's general direction. Just a second more, and it would hit him where it _really_ would count.

" _ARRESTO MOMENTUM_! _FINITE_!" The voice was new. _Dumbledore's_ , Tom thought, _stealing my thunder again_. "TOM RIDDLE WINS!"


	5. Lord Malfoy

Chapter V

The post-divs, post duel party in the Slytherin common room could only be described as 'understated'. In fact, for the usually hard-drinking House of the Snakes, it could scarcely be described as a party at all. Yes, Malfoy was lounging in his favourite Chesterfield, surrounded by girls, with a glass of absinthe and a jug of ice-cold water on the coffee table in front of him. Yes, the room was stuffed full of students, such that Tom could hardly move. Yes, the record player in the corner was playing Gene Krupa. None of this changed the fact that 'something' was missing.

"Why the long face, Malfoy?"

Abraxas slowly shook his head and buried his face in his palms. When he finally came up for air, it was with an expression of mixed admiration and fear.

"You're a Parseltongue, Riddle... I can't believe it."

"What?"

"A Parseltongue. You can talk to snakes."

"Can't everyone? Salazar Slytherin could."

"Oh, yes, Salazar Slytherin, the poster boy for average magic," said Abraxas with a smirk. "So could Gormlaith Gaunt, Herpo the Foul... Oww!"

Seraphine Bonaparte had punched him hard in the shoulder.

"As could /Hermes Trismegiste/, Asklepios-and Merlin Emrys himself. It isn't just Dark wizards that have a preponderance of Fourchelangues... it's great 'Ealers too."

Something clicked in Tom's mind; he'd heard a lightly French-accented voice cheering him on during the duel and even suggesting he use medical magic.

"I can't believe you were there, Seraphine!"

"So was I!" Malfoy said.

"Didn't you say your leg hurt too much?"

"It did, but I couldn't stand seeing him put that... German poison in his veins. So I took the pain away," said Seraphine in that breathy, ingenue voice of hers. Tom didn't want to admit it, but it turned his legs to jelly sometimes.

"She sure did-but Tom, you almost /killed/ that boy. I don't understand why you're not in heaps of trouble right about now."

"What can I say?" Riddle replied with a smirk. "I just wanted to give everyone a good show. Besides, the bugger deserved it-spying on us like that, even though Black put him up to it. Anyways, Bonaparte, how did you help our resident blond-haired idiot with his leg?"

"Oh, I danced with him for a little bit," she said diffidently. "More importantly, do you remember how I miss the swimming pool at Beauxbatons?"

"I-I think I do-you only mentioned it, what, once or twice?"

"A minute," corrected Malfoy, laughing. "No pool, no rugby, the suits of armour are ugly, the walls aren't plastered, the food isn't worthy of a Michelin star... keep in mind, we're the older school by five hundred years, so the Frogs had something to build on!"

"And she said she was afraid of water," Tom mused. "How inconsistent is that?"

"For your in-for-ma-tion," Seraphine shot back, "I'm not afraid of water; I'm afraid _de me noyer_. It's all very good when you can float in a warm pool, naked as the day you were born-but if that ceiling goes, I feel like it's my Waterloo. I don't know about you people, but an aquarium doesn't rate very high on my list of places to live in! M. Malefoy, pick your jaw up off the floor!"

"Erm, right. You were saying...?"

"Well, it seems 'Ogwarts _does_ have its very own heated swimming pool. _Mais_ it's very well hidden-on the seventh floor, next to the picture of the dancing trolls."

"There's nothing there!" Tom said, having thoroughly explored the castle by this point.

"She might be correct," said Abraxas. "One of Hogwarts' greatest secrets is how it 'grows' new rooms based on student demand and sheds the old ones once they're clearly no longer needed. If enough people want a heated swimming pool... I suppose a heated pool is what they'll get!"

"That leaves me wondering about all those empty classrooms."

"Mr Riddle? Come with me, please."

Tom frantically looked around for the voice-which had happened to belong to an adult male. Where previously a supremely comfortable armchair had been now stood Horace Slughorn, jovial as always, though perhaps looking a little bit worse for the wear. This wasn't exactly surprising-having students sit on one would make _anyone_ look worse for the wear.

"I haven't done anything wrong, Professor. I swear."

"I know," Slughorn quietly replied. "Professor Dippet simply wants to see you for a minute, that's all."

The gears began to turn in Tom's head as he slowly accompanied the Potions professor up eight flights of stairs, taking his time so as to be considerate to the older man's lungs, and engaging in quiet conversation along the way.

"What's this to be about, Professor?"

"Truthfully, old boy, I haven't a clue, though I surmise your duel with young Mr Potter might be a consideration," Slughorn wheezed. "I daresay Professor Dippet was quite impressed with your performance-as was I, from what I heard."

"Well, thank you very much."

"On a different topic entirely," Slughorn began, "I am planning a small, informal get-together with a few of the more interesting members of the student body. I believe you may find it intellectually satisfying."

"I take it you're inviting me to the famous Slug Club?" Tom said, quirking an eyebrow.

"It's hardly a club, Mr Riddle-we have neither president nor constitution, nor indeed any permanent members. I simply invite a number of students to help this old man kill an hour or two of his dwindling time. That I do so on a repeating basis is neither here nor there."

"Oh, well, if it's like that," Tom said with a grin, "I suppose I may be induced to join you."

"We _dress for dinner_ ," Slughorn added, throwing Tom a significant look. "The details are on the invitation."

He handed Riddle a piece of light-green paper with deckled edges, folded in on itself to form a sort of envelope and sealed with black wax. The stamp took the form of a garden slug blowing a French horn.

"Well, looks like we're here," said Tom.

They'd arrived at a spiral staircase protected by a high metal gate. Slughorn leant forward on the tips of his toes and reached up to press a button recessed into the wall; Tom noticed that it was labelled "DAY". A soft tinkling sound was heard in what Tom assumed was the headmaster's office, followed by the voice of a woman shouting "Enter!" and a creak as the gate slid out of sight.

"Here's where I leave you, old boy," Slughorn said. "Just step on the stairs and they'll take you right up."

Tom followed Slughorn's instructions; the minute he stepped on the marble steps leading to Dippet's office, the column began to turn, and he found himself silently ascending. A pit of anxiety burned within him.

Armando Dippet's office, so far as Tom could tell, was divided into three parts: an anteroom, the office proper, and a small back room containing an elegant ladies' fainting couch. The anteroom played host to a small desk on which sat a telephone, a typewriter, a stack of parchment all trimmed to the same size, and a terrarium occupied by the snake Tom had conjured during the duel; on the walls were a great number of moving portraits, their occupants engaged in the various activities of daily life, such as eating, reading, drinking, and smoking. At the desk, an old woman sat knitting.

"Come to see Armand, have you, dearie?" she asked. "He should be in the inner sanctum."

The inner sanctum, though, was also deserted. Tom studied it for a minute, trying to get a handle on Dippet's personality. The air was warm-almost uncomfortably so-thanks to the fire roaring in the fireplace. The walls were panelled in ebony, and the hardwood floor was covered with an Axminster carpet. Two flights of steps flanked the truly gargantuan writing desk, leading up to a sort of loft or balcony; in front of the desk were three yellow armchairs. Between two of the chairs was a hinged globe, opened to reveal a tremendous variety of glass bottles. Tom sat down, sinking obnoxiously deep into the soft cushion, but was interrupted almost as soon as he'd done so.

"Up here!" a creaky voice shouted.

Tom followed the voice upstairs toward the balcony, which was equally warm despite being exposed to the four winds. Merlin, Tom loved magic. A brass telescope was set up on a tripod between two wooden chairs, although it was not being used at the moment. Dippet was standing with his gnarled hands gripping the railing as if it might run away from him at any moment, staring into the depths of the Black Lake.

"Don't slouch there like a pregnant sphinx, Riddle," Dippet said brusquely. "Have a seat."

"You wanted to see me, Sir?" asked Tom, once he'd done as asked.

"Yes, I-"

For two minutes or so more, Tom hadn't a clue what Dippet wanted, as he'd fallen victim to the mother, father, and big sister of all coughing fits, doubling over and clutching his chest. At last, he pulled out a polka-dotted handkerchief and wiped away the blood-flecked spittle coating his lips.

"Need a cough drop, Sir?"

"I'm perfectly-" Cough. "-perfectly fine, thank you. How are your Alchemy lessons going, Mr Riddle?"

"Very fine," said Tom, relieved that Dippet had merely called him in to 'catch up', as it were. "It's shaping up to be my favourite subject, in fact."

"I won't lie, Mr Riddle. That's a relief." Cough. "You may not be aware of this, but Professor Flamel has agreed to teach the class only when student demand is sufficient, and it very rarely is."

"I'd heard," Tom said drily.

"This year, there'd been one under the required number. Although it has been unofficial school policy that the course is open to students in their sixth and seventh years only-" Cough. "-you must know that age and magical proficiency do not precisely correlate."

"It's nice to see someone in this school has some sense. I've grown very irritated with seemingly-mature witches and wizards who say I'm too young for it. I have transmuted copper to ruthenium on the first try-if that doesn't prove them wrong, nothing will."

"Of course they're wrong." Cough. "Nevertheless, I have run up against much the same sort of resistance, which is why I rescinded my initial offer. It would be very... _embarrassing_... if I'd allowed so young a student to embark on so demanding a course of study." Cough. "In any case, the fiasco that was your initial Defence class provided a convenient excuse."

"Thank Merlin for that," said Tom, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"You must understand, I love this school with all my heart; I love the students and the faculty, but sometimes they can be infuriatingly obtuse, and this Alchemy business put it in stark relief for me," Dippet creaked out. "Of all the spurious reasons not to have you in that class... well, supposedly not having enough magical energy is one thing, but-"

"Go on, Professor. Let's have a laugh."

"One particularly... insistent... member of faculty, who shall remain unnamed-" Cough. "Well, he protested on the grounds that you lack the 'emotional maturity', whatever that means! He implied that studying Alchemy would likely skew your patterns of thinking-'trying to loophole Death away', is how he put it, as I recall."

"Dumbledore," said Tom darkly.

"A member of faculty who shall remain unnamed," Dippet insisted. "Anyway, he _is_ correct, in that an alchemist's career is spent trying to exploit loopholes in the laws of natural philosophy... because it is only through understanding of the laws that you're able to break them. He _isn't_ correct in assuming that this is somehow wrong-in fact, it's the golden thread that underpins the entire study of magic."

"In that we're completely agreed. Did you teach Alchemy yourself, Professor?"

"Oh, no, not me. Muggle Studies, actually. In any case, your performance at to-day's duel removed all doubts. I firmly believe you will grow up to do great things, Mr Riddle. Don't disappoint me."

"I'll try not to."

"Mind you do! Summoning a snake halfway across the world-well, that's a magical _tour de force_ if I ever saw one, and the Portkeys..." Cough. "Ah, yes, the Portkeys. Those might land you in a bit of trouble, I'm afraid."

"If Mr Potter was afraid of injury, he shouldn't have agreed to the duel in the first place!"

"Not injury, Mr Riddle-a rather disgusting and painful death, though that isn't the primary issue. How much do you know about Portkeys?"

"They're a magical means of transport, Sir, comprising a physical object enchanted with the appropriate charm. Travel with a Portkey is instantaneous and triggered by a condition set at the same time as the enchantment itself. The incantation to create a Portkey is _Portus_."

"Well done! Fifteen points to Slytherin. Do you know about the _legal_ implications around travel by Portkey?"

"Ah. Right."

Riddle, never having given much consideration to magical law except for its breach, chuckled nervously. This could be a problem.

"Portkey licences are issued by the Department for Magical Transport, in exchange for a reasonable administrative fee; alternatively, a Ministry employee can do it, also for a fee. While proposals to legalise _ad hoc_ Portkeys within the bounds of the British Isles have been tabled at numerous times, all such proposals have failed."

"Of course they've failed," Tom said bitterly. "The officials don't want John Q. Wizard doing for free what they do for money!"

"' _Ad hoc_ ' Portkey-creation is likely to be unsafe and will certainly impact negatively upon the livelihoods of our members', is the way the British Union of Mages in Public Employ puts it, but yes," said Dippet, and fell into a coughing fit again. "It is therefore punishable by a fine of up to fifty Galleons, a six-month stay in Azkaban, and a black mark on one's criminal history sheet."

"Oh, dear," murmured Tom. "Dark Arts aren't illegal, yet unlicenced Portkey-creation is. It just goes to show the Ministry's priorities, eh?"

"That's about the shape of things, yes. Now, while I could also institute in-school punishment, I personally believe you did nothing wrong. I just wanted to let you know, in case you get a penalty notice from the Ministry-or Howlers from the public service unions, come to think of it."

"Thank you, Professor."

Tom got up to leave, believing the meeting to be at an end, but Dippet called after him.

"I've heard you wanted to teach at Hogwarts after graduation, Mr Riddle."

"I do."

"Applicants' history sheets must be empty-not even a citation for unlicenced Portkey creation!"

As Tom finally-and wearily-stepped off the staircase to the Headmaster's Tower, he literally bumped into a man about fifty years of age, five-foot-fuck-all in height, with short hair parted on the side and a gold-rimmed monocle wedged in his left eye socket.

"Oof! My apologies, er, Sir."

The man wore an old, but frightfully well-tailored suit of clothes that could be described as two steps beyond conservative: a charcoal-grey travelling cloak, pinstriped trousers, a starched shirt with a wing collar, and a bow tie with green and white diagonal stripes. He also had a signet ring on the little finger of his left hand.

"It's no problem, trul-ear. Mr Riddle, is it? My son said you might be in a spot of trouble, so I came as soon as I could."

"Your son?" Tom said hesitantly. "Mr _Malfoy_?"

"It's _Lord_ Malfoy, actually-call it a mere accident of histor-rear. Armand de Malefoy, my illustrious forebear, was fortunate enough to come over in ten-sixty-six-but never mind that. I took the liberty of arrangin' an _exeat_ for you, so let's not waste it. My motor's parked in the Quad."

The elder Malfoy spoke in an odd way; it was less speech than a slow, modulated sort of yawning, roughened and made almost velvetlike by thirty years of faithful pipe-smoking. More than that, if the English language had one true pronunciation, that favoured by Lord Lucius Malfoy hewed very close to it. Riddle almost felt self-conscious for a moment with his working-class South London accent.

"Your motor? As in, your motor _car_? I was told you were a Pureblood, Sir."

"So I am, but it doesn't change the fact that ridin' the Floo Network makes me dizzy, I don't quite fancy gettin' Splinched, and broomsticks are frightfull-ear _infra dig_. Besides, I rather enjoy drivin'. Do you drive, Mr Riddle?"

"No, Sir, I don't," said Tom dully. "I'm only twelve."

"Abraxas learned at that age. Well, we'll just have to remedy that deficiency over Christmas, won't we? Hop in!"

Riddle reserved judgement on that, but as soon as he saw Malfoy's car, his jaw dropped. It was a brand-new Talbot T-150 two-seater-or as brand-new as it could be, given that there was a war on-with the beautiful Figoni-Falaschi teardrop body in Slytherin silver.

Looking at this pinnacle of French automotive engineering, though, Tom was struck by a distinctly discomfiting feeling. Right-thinking witches and wizards had no truck with those of Muggle blood, as they-wrongly, to be sure-assumed Tom to be, yet there were those who were perfectly content to use their technology. To be sure, Lestrange would rather have died than pick up a telephone, but the elder Malfoy clearly loved his car. He even had an aristocratic title, and, at least to Tom's knowledge, Magical Britain had no titled nobility.

If he'd been a philosopher, Tom would have recognised the emotion as the result of cognitive dissonance, but he was a _realist_. He therefore pushed it aside, opened the passenger-side suicide door, and sat in the Talbot's supremely comfortable bucket seat. Lord Malfoy stomped on the clutch, pressed the starter, and eased the car into second gear as he manoeuvred it out of the grassy quadrangle and onto the cobbled road to Hogsmeade.

"I can see why you prefer this to a broom, Your Lordship. We certainly won't be getting rained on!"

By this point, they'd reached Hogsmeade's Front Street; Malfoy turned the wheel this way and that, trying to avoid all the pedestrians milling about the narrow, twisting road, but it was no use, and people had to jump out of the way more than once. He was a remarkably fast driver, and once they got onto the main drag, Tom watched as Malfoy moved into third and fourth gear, with the needle climbing past forty, then fifty, then sixty, then seventy and eighty...

"And, because we're wizards, we also have the advantages of the broomstick. I call it 'the best of both worlds'."

With that, Malfoy pressed two buttons on the dashboard, and the car slowly lifted off the tarmac. From one of the dim reaches of his mind, Tom dredged up the idea that this wasn't quite legal; Theo Cholmondeley-fforbes, a Mudblood who'd been on the list for Harrow long before he got his Hogwarts letter, had once spoken of attempting to import a flying carpet from Egypt but being stymied by the British authorities.

"Isn't that against the law, Sir?"

Malfoy chuckled.

"From a certain point of view, I suppose... but you must understand, there's one set of rules that affects the B.P.'s-the Beautiful People, the patricians, the 'it' set, you might say-and then there's that other set of rules that affects the plebs."

"Seems a mite unfair, don't you think?" Tom shot back. "Speaking as one of the plebs, I mean."

"It is, but it is what it is, isn't it? I mean, officially, the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects was set up to mitigate crimes against Muggles, but we all know the _real_ reason-it's to protect the livelihoods of the people at Cleansweep and Nimbus. So, the way I look at it, one more charmed car won't put our broomstick makers out of a job, and if I get caught, I can always buy another. Call it civil disobedience, if you must."

"That's a _terrible_ justification. I can't make a Portkey-even within a duelling context-because it'd leave Ministry workers with nothing to do; you can't legally make a flying car... Who writes these sorts of things?"

"The unions do, and the members of the Wizengamot in their pockets. What with the Muggle-rights movement gainin' traction, Prewett knows where to hitch his wagon if he wants to make a Knut, and the rest follow the leader. Pathetic, but it's the nature of the beast."

"So I can thank Prewett and his cronies for the heap of trouble I'm in right now? Perfect. I'm just wondering why you don't take a stab at changing those sorts of laws."

"Well, I'm just one man out of three hundred, aren't I? More importantly, you're in trouble for _unlicenced creation of a Portkey_? My son made it sound like attempted murder! That's all Abraxas, though-him and his habit of catastrophisin'. Never mind, Mr Riddle, it's sorted. Poof. Gone."

Well, Tom thought, now I know where Abraxas gets his crippling insecurity from. What he said was:

"All I know is that thinking like this will lose us the Empire. The only solution I see is to start co-operating. Seats for India in the House of Commons and all that."

"Lose the Empire? Pish-posh. We'll lose the Empire when the sky turns green and the grass turns blue," Malfoy said diffidently. "Still, I like your co-operation idea, what with Gandhi and his rabble-rousers... Say, did you ever give thought to givin' politics a whirl?"

"A... a little," Tom said, with faux bashfulness. "I'm not heir to any of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and I don't see myself as joining the Civil Service, so perhaps teaching is more my calling."

"There are other possibilities. It's not a popular option by any stretch-although it used to be-but the Muggle universities provide a good grounding if one can find a patron. There are also the Wizengamot seats that have fallen into abeyance, and I take it you're an orphan with some magical ability, so you might be heir to some long-lost family. Bears thinking about."

"Right. Thomas M. Riddle, Heir of Slytherin. As you said, the grass'll sooner turn blue. Say, are we there yet?"

"I'm in Wiltshire, so it'll take a while still. Best fall down for a while if you're feeling tired."

Tom didn't need telling twice; he was out like a light in half an hour. Soon afterwards, Malfoy felt a vibration in his pocket; he pulled out a clamshell mirror of the same type as his son used, opened it, and saw an apparently empty chair inside a well-appointed, luxuriously furnished library.

"Hello?" he said uncertainly. "Oh, Miss Westenra. I always forget you don't get along too well with these things."

"Yes, it's me. Good afternoon, Sir. Erm, so there's been a development in the Arsenal case..."

"I can't wait."

"Spell trace analysis shows nothing aside from a possible _Gemino_. They're saying it was Polyjuice along with some inventive runework and-get this-the burglar might not exactly have been human, possibly not even alive in the conventional sense."

"What are you saying? That it was one of _your_ friends?"

"Nothing like that. Varney wouldn't pull something like this-why _would_ he? Tepes is a good girl, and Sanguini's Head of Chambers. We'd be mad to suspect him."

"Why, indeed. Hellfire. I feel like there's not enough time in four days to accomplish what I need to do in one."

"You and me both. What are we going to do about you-know-who? It's do-or-die time."

"Urgh. Bloody French. The man has good ideas, but he'll sign Beauxbatons off to the Krauts without a second thought-no, I won't be having it, I'll deal with him."

"Look at you!" the unseen woman sniggered. "Deciding the fate of Europe, just like that."

"Needs must, old girl, needs must. I've got one of Abraxas' friends in the car with me-"

"Riddle?"

"Yes, it's Rid-how did you know about Riddle?"

"I bumped into him in Hogsmeade. Was hiding under a very good Disillusion, but you know how that sort of thing doesn't work on me. Let me talk to him!"

"He's fast asleep. It was something he said, though-put it together with the pressure building on the Continent, and, well... I think things are about to go irreversibly down the toilet, especially because Grindelwald, damn the old boy, has _principles_."

"Don't forget Fawley."

"How could I forget that lisping, simpering, flamboyant idiot? I bet the last time he saw a woman in the all-together was on his wedding night. That reminds me, you'd better get the old crowd together-Selwyn, Abbott, Yaxley, Rowle, Bulstrode, and Crouch."

"What about Spencer-Moon?"

"Especially him."

Spencer-Moon was an odd name to bring up. He'd started out serving tea in Accidents and Catastrophes-hardly the most glamorous posting-and his magical proficiency was so near to nil that he'd been thought a Squib by all concerned, to the extent that his Muggle father was poised to send him to his old school. It was because of these aspects, not in spite of them, that he would be instrumental in the plan Malfoy had envisioned.

The Muggle Prime Minister was not in the best of health. To be precise, he suffered from cancer of what could very delicately be termed the arsehole. Naturally, he was not long for this world, which was too bad, because, for a Muggle, he was a pukka sahib. There was one small comfort: his replacement-probably Halifax or Hore-Belisha-would certainly be cast in the same mould. It did mean, though, that they'd need a half-blood to serve as his opposite number-and a very specific sort of one at that.

"I'll try my best, Sir. Have a safe drive."

"Hold on. Before you go... I need you to get in touch with... wait, who's the shop steward at Transport? Edgecombe? Yeah, Edgecombe... and tell him, if Riddle gets so much as one Howler from him or his people, I'll bury them under so much parchment that the Sun will die before they dig themselves out. Understood?"

"Ha, ha. Has _someone_ been making unlicenced Portkeys?"

"Very funny. Did you understand?"

"Yes, Sir. See you at the Library."

"'Bye."


	6. Chapter 6

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter contains animal abuse and racial/sexual epithets. Need I remind everyone that Lucius Malfoy Sr (Junior hasn't been born yet) is an old-school Slytherin aristocrat in 1939 and that Tom Riddle is a twelve year and nine month old _VOLDEMORT_? On with the story, everyone.**

Chapter VI

"Wake up, Tom! We're nearly there!" Lucius Malfoy said with boisterous cheer.

"Hmm... what?"

Getting no response, the umpteenth Baron Malfoy opted for a more physical method. He reached across with his left arm and tried to shake his black-haired, blue-eyed, precocious young client awake; this, however, turned out not to be the world's best idea, as the boy began to moan and shudder in fright.

"No... five more minutes, Mrs Cole, please! NO! Please don't hurt me!"

"Hush, old boy, nobody's about to do you any harm. We've almost arrived, that's all."

"Huh?" said Tom, jerking out of his seat and instantly painting a placid smile on his face. "Where have we arrived?"

He could see that Malfoy had landed the Talbot-Lago-but where? The Massey tractor being driven ahead of them at half the speed of smell provided a clue, as did the open window, which was letting in a warm, fresh breeze-that is, if one considered the revolting taint of horse manure evidence of freshness. Pinching his nose, he concluded they were on a country road somewhere in the southern reaches of England.

"We're in Wiltshire. Halfway between Swindon and Marlborough, to be exact."

Surprisingly, however, they visited neither. Instead, Lucius took a gravel-covered turnoff that wound its serpentine way through the leafy hills until it arrived at a wrought iron gate set in a high yew hedge manicured to within an inch of its life. On the gate stood the mysterious legend 'M N REP S', spelled out in burnished brass letters, and at the car's approach it slowly slid open with an audible groan.

The gravel driveway continued some distance behind the gate, several beautiful gardens, a set of stables, and a ha-ha. When Tom saw the enormous Gothic mansion in which the Malfoys made their not entirely humble abode, his jaw dropped, and he could not restrain himself from emitting a gasp of shock. A gigantic mastiff followed the car until it stopped at the front door, whereupon Lucius pulled the handbrake and checked the time on his pocketwatch.

"Welcome to my place of rest. Come on in and have a seat in the drawing room. Make yourself at home. I'll garage the motor in the stables and be with you in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Careful-Mudblood likes to play, but he's not liable to hurt you."

"I can manage dogs just fine," said Tom with a smile. "You named your dog _Mudblood_?"

"One of them, at any rate. There's Mudblood, Kerberos, Rex, Lupa, and Nigger."

"All very nice names," Tom said, opening the door and gingerly stepping onto terra firma.

As Lucius drove the car away, Tom quickly saw that he'd been right about the dog's personality: obnoxiously enthusiastic would be his way of putting it. He knew from experience that the Ministry treated wandless magic the same as the accidental sort-pity it always left him so drained, but needs must.

 _Crucio._ He held it for a count of ten, watching in twisted delight as Mudblood whined in sweet agony, then let the curse fade away. He graciously gave the dog a few seconds free of torment, then hit him with another _Crucio_ , again for ten torturous seconds. Mudblood's howls were music to Riddle's ears; he audibly cackled as he cast the Cruciatus a third time. This time, though, the mastiff couldn't take it anymore and simultaneously voided his bladder and intestine.

"Haha! Would you look at that?" Tom said to himself. "The poor bugger's pissed and shat himself!"

"RIDDLE! What the ever-loving Hell are you doing?!"

"I'm experimenting, can't you see? Stimulus and response! Try it yourself-it's loads of fun!"

Within the space of fifteen seconds, Malfoy's face had turned from pale pink to a rather fetching shade of puce, then to an ashen white. Could human skin _do_ that?

"Have you gone mad? You're _torturing my dog_! You do _not_ practice the Dark Arts on pets!"

"Who should I practice the Dark Arts on, then?" Riddle asked rhetorically. "People?"

"Don't practice the Dark Arts at all! And it's 'on _whom_ should I practice'. 'Who' is the subject, 'whom' is the object, and you _never_ end a sentence with a preposition. Now, get in."

At those words, the front door swung inwards without visible assistance, revealing a brightly-lit passage with moving portraits covering every inch of the walls and a deep purple Axminster rug on the floor. Riddle followed Malfoy to the very end of the passage and through yet another door.

"Here's where it all began!" Lucius said proudly. "Home, sweet home!"

Tom could only stare, open-mouthed, in amazement. This was the drawing room to which his lawyer-for so Malfoy now was-had been referring. Like the entrance hall, its walls were adorned with seemingly innumerable paintings and photographs, though some, surprisingly enough, did not move. Tom recognised Muggles Richard III, Henry VIII, Napoleon Bonaparte, William Garrow, Cecil Rhodes, the Duke of Wellington, and the Earl Haig, as well as wizards Salazar Slytherin, Stoddard Withers, Cornelius Agrippa, Phineas Nigellus, Merlin Emrys, and Paracelsus. The biggest portrait of all depicted Armand de Malefoy, staring down the gigantic table in the centre of the room like a king surveying his domain.

At the head of the room, opposite from the door, was a marble fireplace equipped with the same sort of stout iron shutter as graced the Slytherin common room. Above this was an elegant looking-glass with a gilt frame, and on the shelf thus formed sat a diverse row of magical instruments, curios, and knickknacks. An impressive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling; directly below it, facing the fireplace, was a pair of dark green Chesterfield sofas.

Once again, Lord Malfoy checked his pocketwatch. It was almost, Tom thought, as if he were waiting for something significant to happen. Then, he closed his watch case with an audible snap, strode towards one of the sofas, removed his bow tie with a sigh, and sank into his seat.

"Say, Sir, you wouldn't have any silver close to hand, would you?"

By way of answer, Malfoy reached into his pocket and pulled out a bone-handled, double-edged knife of a Japanese style; Tom surmised he used it in chopping herbs for Potions, engraving Ancient Runes, and performing advanced Dark Arts.

"Would a goblin-wrought kunai do? Peachy. What do you want to do with it, anyhow? Oh, wait, hold that thought for a moment," Lucius said distractedly, before breaking out into a wide grin. "It's snack time. Jeeves!"

"Master?"

Now, Tom knew he hadn't been imagining anything in the library a few weeks back. The... thing... that had Apparated into the room with a pop had the same mottled brown skin and enormous green eyes, although its uniform-apparently derived from a pillowcase-was much cleaner.

"Bring me the usual."

"Yes, Master, Sir!" said the creature, disappearing with a pop like a champagne cork being withdrawn.

"What _is_ that thing?" Tom asked Lucius.

"It's a house-elf-the servants of the wizarding world, after a fashion."

"Wizards have _servants_?" Tom said. He couldn't keep a note of incredulity from creeping into his voice.

"What do you think folds your clothes, makes your bed, and tidies your room at school?"

"I do!"

"Oh... haha... bwahahah! Don't joke like that-you'll make me kark it laughing!" said Malfoy as the house-elf Apparated back into the room under an enormous covered platter. "Thank you, Jeeves!"

"I'm serious! How am I supposed to know that Hogwarts has servants? I've never seen one-the first I heard of house-elves, Verwoerd was saying that Black students should eat in the kitchen with them!"

"It's the mark of a good servant never to be seen or heard," Malfoy lectured good-naturedly. "He said _what_?"

" _She_ said, essentially, that Black students-I mean the race, not the surname-are ill-suited to assimilate into British society. The only solution, according to her, is to sequester them because 'the races must be kept separate'. She called Shacklebolt 'a cut above Mudbloods', which I don't think is exactly true, for what it's worth, but there you have it."

"You can go ahead and call it what it is: nonsense. Even Mudbloods aren't _intrinsically_ inferior, which is something ill-understood in magical society even to-day. The problem with wizards born to Muggles is not that they steal the magic of Purebloods, or anything like that; it's that they haven't internalised our culture, ways, methods of thinking, and suchlike. Minister Grindelwald has attempted a version of Rappaport's Law, but that isn't an ideal solution either, because fostering children past the age of reason leaves them more homesick than anything. Mutatis mutandis for Blacks."

He lifted the cloche off the plate to reveal perhaps thirty brown cream-filled biscuits stacked in the shape of a pyramid, as well as a small bowl of milk.

"All politics aside, it's snack time. I had these brought all the way over from America; they're all the rage there. They call them 'Hydrox cookies'; you're meant to dip them in milk and eat them that way. Enjoy!"

"Thank you, Sir," Tom said gratefully. "Delicious-oh, dash it all..."

"What?"

"I tired myself out hexing that dog of yours. I'd really need to work magic right about now, but if I use my wand, I reckon I'll end up in trouble with the Ministry."

"Serves you right, using Dark magic on pets! Think twice before-oh, Merlin's beard," said Malfoy, his jaw dropping in abject amazement, "you performed the Cruciatus Curse wandless?!"

"Yeah. The Ministry can't tell the difference between accidental magic and the wandless sort, so that's how I get around the underage magic ban," Tom answered with a wink. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"I can't. Advocate-client privilege. You know, I _might_ have a solution to that quandary of yours," said Lord Malfoy with a devilish grin, "but if I tell you, I get the feeling you'll use it as an excuse to raise absolute bedlam every minute of Christmas break... so I shan't."

"In that case, I shan't let you be a fly on Dumbledore's office wall, either."

"How the _hell_ did you manage that?!"

"It's a secret!"

"Oh, _fine_ , but if you abuse this..." the baron trailed off. "The Trace only covers Muggle areas. If you're in a wizard's home or in Diagon Alley, you can work all the magic you want and you won't face legal sanction."

"So _that's_ how Lestrange's cursework ever-so-mysteriously improved! The boy's as idiotic as a Flobberworm, but I wager his dad made him spend his summer practicing."

"Indeed. Well, let's see this fly-on-the-wall technique you have, Mr Riddle. Mind, it's past eleven already, so the balance of probabilities is that he's already retired, but we might as well make hay while the sun shines-or not, as the case may be."

Tom drew his wand from the forearm holster he'd made for it and cast the listening charm as Malfoy's mouth twisted into a tight 'oh' of surprise, evidently at its manifestly inconvenient length of fifteen inches. The charming old lawyer was, apparently, correct in his assumption: nothing could be heard from the silver knife for at least a quarter of an hour, during which the man read _Tatler_ and the boy filled out one of the new, cryptic-style crosswords he'd been starting to enjoy-this one compiled by someone named Ramses.

"Gone too far into no-man's land?" Tom asked, seemingly apropos of nothing. "Four, three, and three."

"Oh, that's easy: 'over the top'."

Tom filled in the answer with his steel-nibbed pen, simultaneously solving 'hat could be dry', five letters, as _derby_. Suddenly, the beginning strains of an instrumental composition began to sound, not-surprisingly enough-issuing from the knife, but emanating, as it were, from inside his head.

"D'you hear that, Sir? Music!"

"That's not just any old music-it's Mozart's overture to 'The Magic Flute'. Say what you like about the man, but he's got frightfully good taste. Hush, though. Sounds like someone's come in."

"Ah, Galatea, Nick, Cuthbert, I'm glad you took time out of your night to arrive. That goes double for you, Armando," said the warm voice of Albus Dumbledore. "Cigar, Galatea?"

"Thank you, Albus."

"Much obliged. The term meeting is coming up, and with the war on, I feel it's incumbent upon all of us to be on the same page."

"What's this about?" said Dippet's voice.

"You might want to plug your ears, My Lord-Dippet has awful coughing fits," Tom joked.

"Believe me, don't I know," replied Abraxas. "Quiet!"

"To fight someone, one must understand whom he's going up against, as well as his motivation," said Dumbledore in his Northern Irish brogue. "To this end, I'd like to provide a sort of looking-glass-however small-into the German mind, as well as the men they've elected to lead them."

"Some historical context, as it were?" asked the rough voice of Cuthbert Binns.

"I don't know if the meaning of history stretches to encompass current events, but yes. As it were," Dumbledore conceded. "I first met Gellert Grindelwald at Godric's Hollow in 1899. He had been rusticated from Durmstrang, apparently for academic underperformance compounded with aggressive tendencies, and so he'd taken lodgings with Bathilda Bagshot, his great-aunt, until he could get back on his feet."

"They didn't snap his wand?" Galatea Merrythought wondered.

"The age of majority in Denmark is fifteen. He was well above that, and as he'd committed no crime, the Royal Ministry of Magical Affairs was forced to let him fend for himself."

"Hum. Interesting."

"I quickly befriended the boy and he let me into his confidence: he was planning to enter politics and change the world. He'd come to believe that the advancement of technology was such that the Muggle would soon hold 'the whip hand' over the mage, and, callow youth that I was, I believed him."

"Callow youth?" Lucius mocked. "That's like believing that grass is green and the sky is blue-he'd be wrong _not_ to believe him!"

"Hah, great minds think alike," said Tom. "That's exactly what Dippet's saying. Listen!"

"Together, we envisioned a new global order that would render the International Statute of Secrecy obsolete: a benevolent stewardship of the world by wizards and witches of proven wisdom and intelligence, all For The Greater Good."

"An unorthodox idea, Albus, but not a bad one," said Merrythought, "so far as it goes."

"How wrong you are-I've finally come to understand that-but at the time, I trusted the plan, I trusted the democratic process, and I was wholly convinced that the latter was the only way to bring about the former. Gellert called me a naive fool. The way he saw it, the Greater Good had to be protected by any means necessary-even by force. We had a... falling-out, and it is this disagreement that, in a circuitous way, brings us to where we are to-day."

"Get to the point, old man," Tom mumbled. "Dipshit must be crawling out of his skin."

"Dipshit?" asked Lucius. "Oh, Dippet. Don't be so hard on the man. He's well over three hundred years old."

"I can believe that," Tom said diffidently.

"... anyway, it would appear that Gellert's come around to a warped, twisted version of my way of thinking, while I moved on entirely. Some time after our final quarrel, he returned to his native Germany, where he met another young man with neither education nor career prospects..."

"Don't tell me he's in bed with Hitler," Tom muttered.

"... a young man by the name of Adolf Hitler. The two made a pact: Gellert would aid Hitler in becoming Chancellor of the German Realm, in return for a place as Minister for Magic. In order to do so, Gellert would need to take Chancellor Hitler's place-but of course, magic provides a bespoke solution for that."

"Polyjuice Potion," said the quaky voice of Cuthbert Binns. "I just have one question, Dimbleby. Just how do you know all this?"

"Because Gellert and I were not just unusually close friends. We had... relations. Carnal... relations."

Tom put a finger down his throat in a gagging gesture and cast a sidelong glance at Abraxas Malfoy, who was shuddering in disgust.

"That's revolting. Who let the poofter teach underage boys?! He could be shagging them!"

"Don't use the word 'poofter', Mr Riddle. People might misconstrue it as homophobic. You may call him a sexual invert, a practitioner of the Greek vice, a paederast, or a catamite. Perhaps even a homosexual. Now, keep quiet; I want to hear what he'll say next, regardless of... proclivity. This has suddenly become very interesting."

"Gellert tried to continue correspondence with me even after our last argument. Needless to say, I discarded his letters unopened until the September before last. He expressed regret at what he'd done-I'd like to think he actually felt it, but you never can tell with him-and enclosed a rulebook for practice duelling, published by the Geheime Zauberpolizei-this very one, in fact-along with an offer for me to take up employment with that same organisation. Of course, I declined. I have long since repudiated the Stufenplan, along with any attempt at securing the Deathly Hallows."

"Fascinating," Tom said, blowing a raspberry. "Anyway, I've heard enough. I can start owling everyone's parents about this kiddy-fiddling teacher."

"Not on your life!" Malfoy the elder said, horrified.

"What? Scared of a wrinkly, old, red-headed fudgepacker?"

"Albus Dumbledore is one of the most powerful wizards of his generation, with sheer magical might only a fraction thereof. Never forget that, Tom. I could exercise my powers as Acting Head of the Hogwarts Board of Governors right now and have him removed..."

"Why don't you, then?" Tom said scathingly, remembered whom he was talking to, and hastily added "Sir."

"Because he's a known quantity where he is right now. If I have him sacked, he might just decide to take up that job offer-and then we'll be buggered. Abraxas tells me you're a Slytherin; _ergo_ , you ought to be very well acquainted with the maxim, _omnia in tempore_."

"I'm not convinced, but all right."

"Besides, what if this is some perverse kind of loyalty test? What if he knows full well what you've done to that book? No, no. Best hold back the P.R. campaign until he's forgotten it-"

"-and then he won't know what hit him," Tom said with a savage grin plastered across his face. "Bye bye, you _fucking_ Nazi _poofter_. Give my regards to the press; they'll rip you to shreds."

"Precisely," said Malfoy with a distinctly dangerous smile.

In the course of all this, Tom had almost forgotten that he hadn't cancelled the listening charm, but he just as soon thanked God, Merlin, and his lucky stars that he hadn't. That bloody paederast was talking about him behind his back-and it wasn't complimentary.

"One more thing before you go, lady and gents. I know I've broached the topic with you all separately, but we really need to co-ordinate our response to the Riddle problem."

"What problem?"

That voice belonged to Armando Dippet. Tom could hear the rhetorical tone in it, for which a tiny part of him was grateful-although this was overshadowed by a seething rage. Dumbledore, on the other hand, was, wilfully or not, oblivious, as proven by his response:

"I'm referring to the rather disturbing fact that Mr Riddle routinely accomplishes feats of wandless magic that most seventh-years can not hope to emulate with wand in hand. He has, at times, relied on an inert simulacrum of a wand-a good one, but a simulacrum nonetheless-and for good reason. His magical proficiency is unparallelled in certain areas; I'm sure you've heard about his 'adventure' in Charms this September, but if you haven't, he was meant to be freezing a glass of water, but froze the classroom floor, walls, and ceiling as well. During today's duel-sorry, yesterday's-he summoned a particularly venomous species of snake that is known to live _only_ in Australia and has never before been captured alive. He then proceeded to encourage said serpent-in Parseltongue, naturally-to attack and kill his opponent and one of his fellow students. To top it all off, he is twelve years old and enrolled in a class with which adult wizards have almost legendary difficulty. Need I continue?"

"What you need to explain, Albus, is why this is at all a bad thing. I believe this school exists for the very p-" and here, Dippet was disabled by another coughing jag, "purpose of encouraging thaumaturgical talent."

"The bad thing lies in the fact that this magical prodigy doggedly refuses to accept death as a natural part of life. For a student of Alchemy, such a preoccupation is not only unhealthy, but also dangerous for magical and Muggle society. I know you like to think that my opposition to his enrolment in that course arises out of a philosophical desire to keep him aware of his mortality, and I won't deny that, but there is a bigger factor at play here. Alchemy can extend life to a not insignificant extent, but the conditions necessary for this are limited and not well understood. When Tom fails in this endeavour-and don't look at me in that way, Nick, you and I both know he will-I fear that his emotional immaturity will have him taking his frustrations out on the rest of us, and may God have mercy on our collective souls when he does."

"I'll show him emotional immaturity when I ram my foot up his arse," Tom mumbled. "We'll see who's feeling philosophical then. On the other hand, he'd probably enjoy that."

"Albus, if anyone can follow in my footsteps and in those of Tycho Brahe, it is _Monsieur_ Riddle. I don't appreciate your sullying my students' good names with unfounded accusations about their private opinions, which they have kept to themselves and about which you know and can know nothing."

"If he _did_ succeed against my expectations, I fear that life would take an even worse turn. Remember: Tom has openly stated a desire to enter politics. He exhibits a ruthless, almost Macchiavellian streak as wide as his seemingly unbounded yen for independence-and he has mentioned several times that he wishes to change the world. Surely my implications must be obvious. Do we _want_ such a person to live functionally for eternity? I shall do my damnedest to frustrate his ambitions-and I invite you to join me in that endeavour, Galatea-but if Tom becomes another Napoleon, Caesar or Grindelwald in spite of our efforts, we can at least take solace in the fact that that, too, shall pass."

"You forget that young Tim is a model student who saved me and my class from death by crushing, while Minister Grindelwald was expelled for ill-discipline. Tim saved my life and the lives of my pupils, while Grindelwald is a warmonger at the very least. Tim is largely apolitical, while Grindelwald has a defined agenda. The differences could not be more obvious."

"You can not be serious, Albus! M. Riddle is a creature ruled by reason-Mlle Bonaparte has proven that to my satisfaction, being as she is half-Veela. There is no good or evil in his heart. Such a concept is as foreign to him as Parseltongue is to you. If you and your lapdog persist in setting him up to fail, you will only succeed in watering the seeds of anger and hate in his soul. Do not be surprised when they bloom. I shall therefore take no further part in this discussion. _Au revoir_."

There was a muffled scraping noise, soon followed by the sound of a heavy door being shut. Tom felt a sort of pride envelop the very core of his being, thanks to Flamel's spirited defence. Of course, he didn't give a tinker's damn for the professor as a person, but it was clear that Nick could be _useful_ in some capacity- _what_ capacity was the big question.

"D'you know, Albus," said Galatea Merrythought, "I think Flamel almost has a point. _Almost._ Horace tells me that he saw Gregorovitch give Mr Riddle his wand free of charge. The man must've been impressed in some way."

"The nerve of that bastard!" Tom almost shouted. "He wasn't impressed! He was _sorry_ for me... because of, well, _this_!"

He gestured at himself-or rather, at the threadbare tweed jacket and black polo neck he was wearing. Malfoy silently shook his head.

"Impossible," said Dippet. "I could see Garrick doing it. He sells all his wands on a flat-rate basis-loses on ebony and unicorn hair what he gains on pine and dragon heartstring-but Mr Gregorovitch isn't like that. Fair market value cent-per-cent of the time, every time... unless you believe those rumours..."

"They are just that," Merrythought replied obstinately. "Rumours. We all know how ownership of _that_ particular wand changes, and last I saw Mykew Gregorovich, his heart was still beating!"

"Could expect that from a cowan," muttered Malfoy.

"That's not necessarily true. After all, Beedle sought not to relay a historical narrative, but to tell a tale imbued with a moral message, no matter how misguided. The Deathstick, according to my research, ill-deserves its name. It is attracted to unmitigated power, and we've all heard the one about the quill and the wand."

"In that case: may Heaven help us all," said Dumbledore.

"My God," Malfoy breathed. "Looks like Binns and that French fellow are the only ones in that room who aren't idiots. Well, thank Merlin for Borgin's."

He undid the top two buttons on his shirt, revealing something like an egg timer in a gold frame resembling the sigil on the cover of the German Aurors' duelling manual. The only difference was that the miniature hourglass had wings on it.

"What's that?" Tom asked.

On the left side of the timer was a sort of key, like what one might find on a wind-up toy. Lord Malfoy turned it twelve times...

... and vanished without a trace.


End file.
